


Showtime.

by RT Fice (RT_Fice)



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Beetlejuice's Graveyard Revue, F/M, Haunting, Horniness, Humor, Lust, Public Sex, con man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29050149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RT_Fice/pseuds/RT%20Fice
Summary: Beetlejuice has tricked his way into the Real World, and has a plot to thoroughly enjoy himself as the star of "Universal Monsters Live Rock and Roll Show" at Universal Studios Resort in Orlando, Florida.  To do it, he has to seduce a playwright, avoid the suspicions of her cowriter, the director, the producer, and cast members, and convince everyone that he's alive, while not attracting the attention of his former boss Juno and the Neitherworld Bureaucracy.  But a resentful ghost in the cemetery he's haunting, as well as a mysterious, powerful Wandering Ghost, are determined to to send him back.  Forever.This fic was originally posted on Fanfiction.net in 2010, and removed before the FFN Fandom Purge of 2012.Though inspired by the now extinct Universal Studio revue, this is a work of fiction.  It does not represent the real show, or any of its cast, crew, or creatives.  It's based in part on my own experiences in theater and television, and on having worked with stage and television producers, directors, performers, and crew. However, I do borrow the character description of Beetlejuice that was on Universal Orlando's "Shows and Roles" webpage, which no longer exists.This work is unfinished.
Relationships: Beetlejuice & OCs
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This Beetlejuice is the movie version in looks, attitude, and temperament. This is not Cartoonverse Beej or Universal Revue's version. He's definitely Keatlejuice.
> 
> In this story, the Beetlejuice movie and everything it inspired never existed.
> 
> *~*~*~*

"It's the weirdest damn proposal."

Lou glanced at the director and writers sitting at the long folding table with him. Dan's brow was furrowed. But Lou could see the lights on in Sid and Alice's eyes. They were intrigued.

The man who'd finished auditioning was lounging in the folding chair ten feet away from the table in the audition room. His black boots were crossed at the ankles and his hands were clasped in his lap. He'd certainly dressed to impress. It was the best damn stage makeup Lou had ever seen in daylight. The guy's skin was so pale it was white-lavender. Dark circles surrounded eyes, which had a yellowish cast. His overbite was mossy green, and his shaggy, shoulder-length blond hair was dry as Death. The striped suit, long, thin black tie, and magenta shirt were outrageous. The producer had seen actors knock themselves out with costumes and makeup for auditions before, but that was always for existing characters in existing roles. This guy had come up with the persona, and the look, on his own.

"OK," said the producer, " _why_ would we want to make your character the centerpiece of the show? An _original_ character nobody's ever heard of?"

The guy shrugged. "Whaddaya got now?" He counted off on his fingers, which ended in what looked more like claws than nails. "One, ya got classic monsters from Universal pictures; Dracula, Frankenstein's monster, th' bride of Frankenstein, th' Wolfman. Everybody knows these characters so well that there's nothin' interestin' about 'em. Two, ya got original songs which suck eggs in th' steamin' Florida sun."

"Hey," said Alice indignantly. "I wrote those songs."

"Then get outta songwritin', hon, 'cuz no matter what _this_ guy told ya when he hired ya," the performer jerked his head to indicate Lou, "yer stuff is sentimental an' lame. You wanna do Broadway, then go t' New York. Here, you got twenty minutes with sweaty tourists who are probably itchin' to find a toilet. Yer songs don't hold their attention. Trust me; I've seen th' show four times."

Alice opened her mouth, glanced at Lou, and shut it with a snap. With a characteristic nervous habit, she tucked strands of her shoulder-length, tightly-curled red hair behind her ears. Having a black father and a white mother, and skin dark enough to almost conceal her freckles, people assumed her hair was created from a salon, rather than home grown. They also thought her Minnesotan accent and Lutheran restraint were contrived. That cultural reticence inculcated in her by her mother kept her from stating aloud that she knew as well as Lou that attendance was down. _Way_ down. It'd never been that high to begin with.

"Three," continued the guy who called his character "Beetlejuice," "the show's got no arc. Ya got an announcer doin' an imitation of Vincent Price's voice introducin' each monster. Each monster does a song. There are sorry-ass dance moves, special effects that're weaker than a state fair Fourth of July fireworks display, a final song, an' boom, th' end. _Dull_ , man."

"He’s right." The slim young white man with spiky, bleached-blond hair and glasses with narrow, tortoiseshell frames looked meaningfully at Lou and Dan. "I co-wrote the thing, and I agree with him. Don’t you, Alice?”

“Um,” was all she said.

"So this 'Beetlejuice' would do _what_ , exactly?" Dan's hair and square face could make one suspect that he was the illegitimate son of JFK. He squinted as he wiggled his pencil between the first and second fingers of his left hand.

The actor stood up. There was no denying, he had charisma. He owned the room. "Beetlejuice, _me_ , is The Ghost With the Most. The Cool Ghoul. He's a poltergeist so powerful he can possess anyone, mind an' body. He's th' ultimate Trickster. Ya know what a Trickster is?" He looked at them expectantly.

Alice nodded. "I studied mythology and folklore in college."

"Good for you, hon. Now, you all saw my audition. I come out, right into th' audience. I do some innuendo, flirt with th' ladies in th' audience—"

" _That_ …" Dan looked skeptical. "What you did, in your audition. That was PG-13. It bordered on PG-17."

" _I_ liked it," muttered Alice, blushing a little.

"Look, you want cutesy, Universal Orlando's already got plenty of that. You got George th' Curious Fuckin' Monkey, fer cryin' out loud. Ya need somethin' for teens and _adults_. We're not talkin' _Masterpiece Theatre_ here. These are people who saved up for years for mindless entertainment. For _fun_. What do adults like?" Beetlejuice threw his arms wide. "Sex, drugs, an' rock n' roll!"

"Not everybody does," said Dan.

Beetlejuice came forward, put his palms on the table, and leaned in on Dan. Dan leaned backward, which anyone who knew him would have been shocked to see. His colleagues at the table certainly were. His voice was suddenly well-mannered and sophisticated. "My dear sir, the ones who have no appetite for sex, drugs, and rock and roll are hugging Mickey Mouse at the _other_ park. Even then, the dads are likely fantasizing about having marital relations with Cinderella. You cannot compete with that. You _do not want to_ compete with that." Beetlejuice backed away, straightening his tie.

"OK." Lou found himself getting pulled in further than he wanted to be. The audition had officially transformed into a Pitch Session. "So what's your character _do?_ What's the arc?"

In his regular voice, Beetlejuice explained, "The Ghost with the Most is the Host. I call up th' Universal classic monsters. They come in lookin' th' typical way they do in th' movies. But _then_ …" The man suddenly swept his arms in a wide circle and snapped his fingers. Right in front of him, in the middle of the room, there was a flash of light and a small explosion. He disappeared in a burst of smoke.

The creative staff jumped in their chairs, eyes wide.

The man's voice eerily said from the midst of the smoke, "They're transformed." He stepped through the smoke, holding an electric guitar.

The people at the table gawked. He hadn't brought that guitar with him, not that they'd seen, anyway.

"Their clothes are hip an' sexy. The Bride is a babe. Dracula's a hunk. Even Frankie's monster is cool."

"They're rock stars," chimed in Sid, eagerly.

"You got it, pal!"

"So what do they sing?" said Alice. "They've got to sing."

"Classic rock! You pick the songs!" said Beetlejuice.

"Royalties," said Dan, grimly.

"We're paying royalties _now_." Lou glanced at Alice. She didn't look at all pleased at the prospect of lost revenue.

"And _your_ character's the M.C.!" Sid was all but bouncing in his seat with excitement. "There could be tension between the characters! How would the Monster feel about his Bride being on stage?"

"Dracula could be competition!" Alice had moved on from the bad taste of possibly losing song royalties to the idea of making royalties off a new script. "How about a hot, sexy Dracula?"

"What'll we do with the Wolfman?" Sid's imagination cranked into high gear.

"We'll think of something!" said Alice.

"Wait a minute." Dan held up both his palms in a STOP gesture, his pencil still held between his fingers. His voice was dry and humorless. "What are you talking about? A new script? New songs, _old_ songs, I should say, where we have to find who has the rights, and how much it'll cost us to get them? All because of one audition? A good audition, I grant you. But from a guy with no track record, no representation, nothing but this," the director waved to indicate the actor, " _persona_ , and some ideas?"

"A lot of shows began with a persona and some ideas," Lou ventured. "Jackie Gleason. Jack Benny. Abbott and Costello."

"They were _famous_ , Lou."

"They didn't start out that way."

"So what're you saying?" Dan tapped his pencil eraser on the table. "We invest time and money into this unknown guy's idea?"

Lou sighed. "Are we kidding ourselves? The 'Universal Studios Monster Revue' is headed for the grave. The Suits are digging the plot already. We don't try something, we're gonna be replaced with 'The Smurfs On Ice.' Personally, I like a steady paycheck and health benefits."

The director and writers looked at each other. The performer stood there, hands clasped in front of him, with half-closed eyes and a confident, smug smile.

Dan inhaled slowly. He shrugged. "You're the producer, Lou."

"I'm constantly aware of that." Lou pointed at the smug man. " _You_. Meet with _them_." He pointed at Sid and Alice. "Get something on paper. You got a day. We'll do _one_ read through. We'll use the evening swing cast; they're the best. If we're not vomiting, we'll do _one_ blocking. No pyrotechnics. You dazzle me enough, we'll take it to the Suits." Lou leaned forward, his finger aimed at the performer, and squinted one eye. "I warn you: I haven't been dazzled since _Les Miserables_ opened."

"I love a challenge," said the performer. "Know whut I mean?"

"You get one day," Loud emphasized as he stood up. When he did, so did everyone else.

"I appreciate yer time an' attention." Like a seasoned pro, the performer shook the hands of each of them. The writers exited, whispering between themselves. The director followed, chewing on his pencil.

Lou, the producer, waved his hand for "Beetlejuice" to approach.

"You got to tell me," he said. "The flash, the smoke. Producing that guitar out of thin air. How'd you do it? You were a stage magician? A street busker?"

"Somethin' like that," said the actor, with friendly evasiveness.

"OK, whatever. But you got to at least tell me, _how_ do you make that striped, pointed green tongue?"

The performer broke into a toothy grin. His yellowish eyes were secure and wily. He shook his head. "Ah, that would be tellin'." _In more ways than one._ He winked.

* * *

It had been so damn easy. Once he got Out, that is.

He'd been rattling around the graveyards and haunted hotspots of Florida for months. It was impossible to tell for _how_ many months; Florida had no goddamn seasons.

Fuck, but Beetlejuice hated the limits of haunting, and the limits of what he could do to get the Living to say his name. He couldn't write it down. He couldn't say it aloud. Pictures and charades only worked with people who had half a brain. In his experience, the average Live Person he managed to get even slightly interested was a moron. Clever people avoided superstition and the "supernatural."

The Neitherworld and the Living World have no direct correlation in time and space. Having long since escaped being nailed down to a particular haunting territory, Beetlejuice could come and go across the United States and back to the Neitherworld as he pleased. Nevada today, Michigan tomorrow, Florida the next week. Juno, the Case Worker whose assistant he had once been, had given up tracking him. It was impossible for her to keep an eye on him while she had to manage the millions of new dead who entered her office.

It was beginning to look like the boredom of Eternity was going to be Beetlejuice's personal Hell, when some teenagers decided to play Séance in the auditorium of Evans High School in Orlando, Florida.

Local legend claimed that the school's auditorium was haunted. Five drama students stayed late after a rehearsal of _Our Town_ to down a few Newcastles (what passed, for them, as sophisticated, imported beer) and toke one or two joints. Inspired by the play's graveyard set, the students decided to call the spirit of the man who'd committed suicide in the rafters.

Seances have no supernatural power. It was pure coincidence that a real "spirit," Beetlejuice, happened to be in the high school at that time, checking out whether the local legend was true.

It wasn't.

Beetlejuice loved drunk and high morons, especially teenagers, because they were so damn sure they were actually _more_ lucid and clear-minded. They were "susceptible," in more ways than one.

The ghost literally waited in the wings as five members of the Evans High Drama Club sat in a pentagram scrawled on the floor in chalk, and lit black candles set on the star's points. Giggling, they spoke a chant they'd composed on the spur of the moment, trying their amateur best at British accents.

When the chant ceased, Beetlejuice was extremely tempted to appear as Satan. The only thing that stopped him was the possibility that they might believe in that nonsense enough to be sincerely frightened and run for it. Instead, he gave a long, low moan that got their attention. Very slowly, he appeared in the only form he could while he was separated from the Living world; as an opaque, foggy figure.

He assured the startled but delighted students that he was indeed the man who had hung himself from the catwalk. He sighed that he had longed for the day when someone would do just the _right_ incantation to bridge the barrier between Life and the Afterlife, and they, clever, clever kids, had done it (flattery, of course, secured their interest). He was, he continued as they eagerly scooted across the floor and gaped at him, condemned to haunt this place, unless and until Believers spoke his name three times. If some generous living souls did this, he would then be free to Pass Through the Mystic Portal to a Better Place.

The catch was getting them to discover his name. Luckily, pronunciation was all that mattered. Beetlejuice made it into a game. Like a lot of Drama students, they prided themselves on being bright, so they participated enthusiastically.

"What was th' nickname for th' car called th' V.W. Bug? '" said Beetlejuice.

They blinked at him.

"From th' '60s. An' th' '90s,'" he hinted.

They looked at each other.

"Shit, c'mon! What kinda cultural memory do you guys have? Do you know anythin' before th' year two-thousand?" He ground his teeth. "What band did th' song 'I Am The Walrus?'"

They blinked at him.

The poltergeist grit his teeth. "Alright, we'll skip media from th' previous century. What kinda bug's got six legs an' long, wavy antennae?"

"A cockroach!" chirped a girl with magenta hair.

"Roach! You're name's Roach!" yelled a tall, scrawny boy.

Beetlejuice slapped his palm over his eyes. "It's th' _general_ name fer bugs like that."

"Insects!" cried another girl.

"Narrow it down," Beetlejuice prompted.

" _Coleoptera_ ," offered a quiet girl.

"His name is Cleopatra?" said another boy.

"Yer gettin' there!" The ghost, who'd experienced enough attempted exorcisms to have more than a little familiarity with Latin, waved his hands encouragingly to the shy girl. "Th' every day version!"

"Oh," said a quiet girl. "Well, I mean, their Class is _Insecta_ , their Phylum is _Anthropoda_ , their Kingdom is --"

"The name you'd say if ya saw one crawlin' in yer friend's hair!" Beetlejuice yelled. "Like, 'Hold still, Janet, ya got a whatzit on yer--"

"Cockroach!" blurted Scrawny Boy.

"Beetle?" said Quiet Girl.

"That's it!" The ghost pointed triumphantly at the alarmed girl. "That's the first part!"

" _Beetle_ is the first part of your name?" asked Magenta Hair, skeptically.

"Yes! OK! Second half. What do you get when you squeeze an orange?"

"Sticky!"

Beetlejuice clenched his jaw. "The _liquid_. That you _drink_. Fer _breakfast_."

"Minute Maid!"

"Sunkist!"

"Tropicana!"

"Ugh." Magenta Hair stuck out her tongue. "I hate that brand of juice."

" _That's it!_ " yelled the ghost. "That word, _that word!"_

"'Brand?" asked Quiet Girl.

"No, _**no**_. The word she said _after!_ "

"Juice?"

"YES! Darlin', I love ya!"

The girl beamed shyly.

Beetlejuice calmed himself down, and held up his two forefingers. "Now put th' two together."

"Juice beetle?" said Scrawny Boy.

"Beetle juice?" said Magenta Hair.

"Beetle juice," piped another girl.

It would only work if one person said it three times. If two or three people said it separately, there was no effect. Damn Magic Rules. "C'mon, sweetheart. Two more times."

"Beetlejuice," said a boy.

"No no, no. Look . . ." Drawing a long breath to rein back his impatience, the ghost tilted his head and grinned winningly at their confused and stupid faces. "Ya wanna put me at Eternal Rest, right? Free me from haunting alone an' feared? So I can Move On t' see my Mom and Dad and Little Sister Suzy and my pet dog Sparky--

"They don't have dogs in Heaven," said scrawny boy.

"Hey kid, who's th' authority, you or _the dead guy?_ " Beetlejuice snarled. Reassuring the alarmed Drama students, he continued, gently, "Let's make this a joint effort. Yer all actors, ya know how t' take direction. On the count of three, all of ya, together, say my name _three times_."

"What'll happen?" asked Magenta Hair.

"Oh," whispered the ghost in tones mysterious, "somethin' you've never seen in yer wildest dreams."

They grinned at each other.

"One, two," Beetlejuice prepared himself, " _three."_

They said it, three times, in unison, and loud.

The flash of lightning and crash of thunder knocked them all backward. They sat up, wide eyed and gaping.

Manifesting was a _fantastic_ feeling, like passing through a hot waterfall. Damn, how many years had it been? Beetlejuice admired himself, now the same on the Living World side as he was in the Neitherworld. He gazed at his claw-nailed fingers and flexed them. He smoothed the front of his striped jacket and loosened his tie.

The students paled. Evidently, he wasn't what they'd expected.

"Oh. Hey. Whaddaya know. I'm still here." Beetlejuice grinned at them hungrily. They leaned away from him. "So why don't we have a lil' _fun_?"

The evening news reported what the students claimed had happened. The man's face had suddenly exploded into a hideous visage "beyond description," one girl had sobbed on camera. The teenagers had screamed and run. Ropes had whipped out from the wings, grabbing them and tossing them into the seats. Klieg lights had swiveled and blinded them. The Fire Curtain plummeted a' la the Phantom of the Opera's chandelier, half smothering three of them. Luckily the black candles were snuffed out by the crashing curtain, but the auditorium filled with a horrible stench and smoke. All the while, the strange man was "cackling maniacally." By the time one of the students made it outside and called 911, the man had vanished "in a bolt of lightning and thunder which deafened us," a boy said, very earnestly and sincerely.

The news anchor reported that the students had been performing a "secret Satanic ritual" and that "drugs and alcohol were involved."

Beetlejuice hung around the school, just to hear the students' and staffs' speculations about what had really happened. Of course, there was no investigation. Kids attempting a Satanic ritual while high and drunk, what was there to investigate? The school buried the news and forbade all mention of the incident to prevent parents from withdrawing their little darlings to the sanctified protection of a Catholic school.

As the weekend approached, Beetlejuice was bored and about to move on. The other ghosts in the neighborhood – ghosts always knew of the presence of their kind—had made it clear that no poltergeists were welcome, and if he didn't get lost, they'd contact the Office.

Beetlejuice didn't need Juno knowing where he was or what he was up to. If she got pissed off enough, she'd place an Express Order Number XB-2013 (in triplicate) to have him stuck in some goddamn "haunted house," probably in the middle of frickin' nowhere. But he had no idea where to go. It was pure serendipity that he overhead two seniors in the hall outside the auditorium commenting on something posted on the bulletin board. Beetlejuice possessed the EXIT sign above them to listen.

"…gonna register my profile for auditions," said one boy.

"Have you even seen that show?" The second boy made a fart noise. "It's truly pathetic, dude. I wouldn't want it on _my_ resume. You'd be better off auditioning for The Man With the Yellow Hat. Seriously."

After the school closed, Beetlejuice manifested and looked at the flyer the boys had been reading. It was for a website where performers could register to audition for shows at an Orlando theme park. The words _Universal's Classic Monsters Revue_ were circled with red marker, and written next to it with the same pen was _Roles open for actors, singers/dancers!_

_Monsters_? Beetlejuice scratched his jaw, considering. _"Truly pathetic?" How bad could it be?_ He might enjoy an afternoon of watching actors crash and burn, live on stage. A con-man, the ghost was an actor of a kind, and he'd never had respect for "Show Folk," whom he considered needy and dependent.

Besides, he didn't have anything else to do.

* * *

Beetlejuice had always been a hound. He was just as lubricious in his Afterlife, if not more so, due to the increased lack of opportunity. Dead women no longer needed men for security, as too many Living women did. Dead women chose partners out of sincere attraction, rather than needing a male partner to survive. Very, very few women in the Neitherworld ever became desperate enough to accept Beetlejuice's advances. He hadn't had action in longer than he wanted to recall.

Afterlife Rules dictated that there was to be _no_ sexual interaction between the Living and the Dead. **_Ever_.**

Rules were Beetlejuice's toilet paper.

Several young women who were waiting for _Universal's Classic Monsters Revue_ to begin were dressed to be noticed. Current fashion styles included micro shorts and miniskirts; plunging tank tops and halters; vacuum-sealed t-shirts as thin as rice paper; and skin-tight, low-riding, panty-revealing jeans. Only his filthy tighty-whiteys kept the awakening pulse in his cock under wraps. Tempted as he was, the ghost had no plans to test his slickness with Living women right now. He wanted a low profile. It was difficult enough to not stick out when his skin was the color of an Artic snowdrift, among crowds with hides the color of tanned leather or orange soda. He'd spent all morning shaving moss off his face and tweezing bug legs from his teeth.

Beetlejuice sat in the seating area's back row, in the shade of the overhang, dressed in a magenta Hawaiian shirt with a beetle pattern he'd ripped off from a vintage shop, black-and-white striped shorts and sandals, both lifted from motel rooms. Through Ray Bans he'd lifted from a tourist shop, he coolly observed the meager audience take their seats. With instinctive unease, the tourists kept a distance from him.

The show was indeed as bad as the student had suggested. Universal Orlando mistakenly believed that their "classic" monsters alone were a draw. Who gave a rat's ass about Frankenstein's Monster, his Bride, Dracula, the Mummy, and the Wolfman? They'd been so overused in popular culture for over seventy years that there was nothing surprising about any of them. The monsters' individual songs were angsty, and bellowed at the top of the performers' lungs, as if they all wanted to be Ethel Merman when they grew up. It was more of a sorry off-off-Broadway try-out than a polished piece of entertainment. The performers gave no indication of any investment in their roles, other than showing up.

The applause at the end was politely insincere. The crowd quickly dispersed.

Beetlejuice came back for three shows. The level of quality of the performers varied from "Hey, I'm just here to earn a paycheck" to "Please God, shoot me now."

Beetlejuice manifested at the Orlando Public Library, where strange-looking men were something librarians were used to. When he sat down in the computer room, several homeless people scooted away from him. With a library card he stole from an unsupervised eight-year-old, he used his one-hour limit on a computer first to create an email account, and then to register for an audition on Universal Orlando's webpage. Being a natural born con man, he easily bullshitted his "Area(s) of Talent," and reached the 2000 character limit in the "Role(s) of Interest" section.

The role he wanted didn't exist, except in as much as _he_ was it. First he'd get himself seen. His ego was certain one audition was all it would take to put his plan in motion.

Beetlejuice was right.

* * *

"What's 'Beetlejuice's' persona?" Sid doodled in his Moleskin, warily eying the actor. Why had the guy come costumed as his character? This was a brain-storming session, not another performance.

"B.J. Beetleman" crossed his boots on the writers' office coffee table, and lounged back on the spacious, authentic Danish Modern avocado-green couch. He could _smell_ the young man's resistance and resentment toward this new, older man having such an important say in the creation of the revamped show. Well, there was someone else in the room who was more susceptible to influence. Someone who wasn't as confident as she thought she was.

"He's a poltergeist, a malevolent ghost," said Beetlejuice. "He's got th' power t' possess anyone, mind an' body. He loves wreaking havoc, t' rock people outta their boring, mundane lives."

Sid squinted, sure he was missing something. "Why would anyone _like_ this guy?"

From the couch's matching armchair, Alice spoke around the fingernail she was chewing, as she wrote on her yellow legal pad. "He's a Bad Boy."

"Pardon?" said Sid.

Alice glanced at Beetlejuice, who smiled and winked at her. Her eyes yanked back to her busy ballpoint. "You know. The renegade, the lone wolf, the guy who'd give your mother a heart attack and make your father grab a shotgun. He moons Authority. He's so cool and confident fire couldn't burn him, but he can ignite things on his own."

Beetlejuice grinned. _Oh, yeah. Come t'_ _Daddy._ "I couldn't've said it better myself."

"He's still a jerk," Sid stated with distaste.

Alice slapped her pen down on her pad and pressed her lips together tightly for several seconds before snipping back, "The Sheik. The Phantom of the Opera. John Dean in 'Rebel Without a Cause.' The real Jack Nicholson. Jerks _sell_."

Sid looked as if he needed a map and a GPS to follow where his writing partner was going. "Alice, this is a _family_ theme park. Tourists will expect a _family show_."

Beetlejuice's boots hit the carpet as he sat forward, glowering at the young man. This one was gonna cause problems. He had to be moved out of position. "Look, kid-"

"Hey, _pal_ ," Sid countered, "I graduated from Cal State, with an M.F.A. I'm a member of Writers Guild of America, West. I won an original one-act play competition, and both Spielberg and Lucas called my play clever and witty."

"Good fer you. Obviously th' tens of thousands you coughed up fer that education didn't teach ya about _life_. Let me tell ya who yer audience is. Middle America on vacation. An' people from other countries who want t' _see_ Middle America on vacation. They're not coming t' Universal Orlando t' see ' _clever'_ an' ' _witty_.' These aren't people who go t' th' Stratford Shakespeare Festival, an' yer not writin' for Sid Caesar an' Ernie Kovacs."

Sid's blond eyebrows rose. "You must be older than you look."

_You have no idea._ "So ya know who they were. Good, Gold Star fer you. I have a drop of respect fer ya now."

"What _do_ they want, Mr. Expert?" Sid challenged.

Beetlejuice smirked slyly. "A little raunch. A lotta innuendo. Some 'tasteful' T an' A. They want t' feel they're getting away with somethin'. They want t' toy with th' fantasy of cuttin' loose, but not blatantly, because that's too scary. They don't want anythin' that'll look bad t' th' folks at home when they see th' vacation Tik Toks."

Alice tilted her head, completely oblivious to how she was admiring the older man. "Were you ever a psychologist?"

"Better than that, babe. I'm a student of human nature." _Especially its underside._

Alice ventured, "The guys want 'Beetlejuice's' sexual openness, contempt for authority, and confidence. The girls want him to want _them_." She smiled, tentatively, at the actor as he slouched back on the couch and draped one thigh over its arm. "Right?"

"You couldn't be righter, sweetheart." _Her freckled nose is goin' red. Bingo._

Sincerely not comprehending this point of view, Sid whined, "Why would a woman want a guy like that to want them?"

Beetlejuice shook his head in disgust. "Kid, you have lived a sheltered life. An' yer thinkin' too damn much. When was the last time you got laid?"

"I'm gay," he muttered.

"So? When was the last time you got laid?"

"What's _that_ got to do with anything?"

"I dunno what ya do t' relax, but do it. Yer takin' this _waaay_ to seriously."

" _My_ job's on the line."

"An' that's exactly why ya should loosen up." Beetlejuice crossed his hands behind his head. "You get paranoid about yer paycheck, you'll write like yer tryin' t' impress Spielberg an' Lucas again."

Sid glanced at Alice, his eyebrows turned up at the inner corners so that he looked like a confused Golden Labrador who'd been bopped on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper, but who still wanted to please. Alice smiled at him and shrugged.

"What's the mindset again?" asked Sid, with resignation.

Beetlejuice lay back on the couch, his hands clasped over his stomach and his eyes closed. "Think Middle America on Summer Vacation. Escapism. Fun. Spectacle. Playin' Naughty. Sex, drugs, an' rock an' roll."

"Without the drugs," said Alice. "For the rock and roll, we can take classic songs and…and…revamp them for a 'monster' theme!"

"The Monster and his Bride are made from corpses," began Sid, following a stream of consciousness, "and Dracula's a vampire, 'Beetlejuice' is a ghost, so we have a theme of…deadness. Does Middle America want deadness?"

"Dead is cool," said Beetlejuice.

"Death is taboo. _Taboo_ is cool." Alice tucked a russet curl behind one ear and eagerly improvised. "It can be a _graveyard revue."_

"Love th' sound of it," Beetlejuice murmured.

Alice kept her eyes on her yellow pad as she nonchalantly added, "B.J., I think maybe you can play this role."

"Alice," mumbled Beetlejuice languidly, "I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship."

Sid had indeed lived a sheltered life. He looked at the man who seemed on the brink of falling asleep, and then to his writing partner of three years, who seemed to be concentrating on whatever she was writing. He didn't think or sense anything about the tableau, except to feel a tingle of hope that he wouldn't have to return to writing diaper commercial jingles any time soon.

"I'm starved." Sid stood up and rotated his right arm at the shoulder, loosening up. "I've got a craving for Malaysian. What do you say?" There was no response. "You guys coming?"

Beetlejuice waved his hand in a dismissive bye-bye gesture, not even opening his eyes.

"Alice?" asked Sid.

"Uh, I think I'll stay here and work with B.J. some more."

Sid sighed and shook his head. "See you later."

The door closed. The room was surprisingly quiet. Alice fidgeted with her pad, flipping back and forth between pages without reading anything.

She began to wonder if B.J. was asleep. "Um." She cleared her throat.

"I'm all ears, babe," came his deep, dry, but surprisingly smooth voice.

"I've got some sample lines, if you'd like to read them."

From a prone position, the man rose from the waist and sat up. Alice was startled and impressed. Who'd have thought he had strong abdominal muscles under that beer gut? His audition had demonstrated that he certainly had lots of energy.

Beetlejuice rested his elbow on the back of the couch and his chin on his hand. "Why doncha come over here an' show me?"

Alice chewed her upper lip, shrugged, stood up, dropped her pen, bent down and picked it up, and bumped into the corner of the coffee table as she sat down next to the actor. She was very aware that he was an actor. She knew all about them, having worked with them since she was in high school. While she needed quiet and solitude to be her creative best, actors seemed to be "on" at all times, emotional Black Holes constantly sucking away at others' attention. In the past, she'd mistaken actors' high energy and charm for sincere interest. She was immune now.

The difference with this guy was, he wasn't needy. He was so utterly confident.

"So, they’re only ideas." Alice didn't look up from her pad as B.J.'s arm rested on the back of the couch behind her and he slid closer. Her hair slipped from behind her ears and obscured her face as she concentrated on the page. "I think, um, the raunch should be, uh, _playful_. Not aggressive."

"Relax." Beetlejuice's voice was smooth as liquor.

"Well, you know, Sid's right. This could mean our jobs, either that we keep them or we go back to working I.T. during the day and pitching scripts at night. I don't know about _you_ , but I really, _really_ need this-"

She stopped. The man was tucking her hair behind her ear and leaning forward. She could feel his breath on her cheek.

"Remember whut I told Blondie? Ya need t' _relax_ , sweetheart."

Alice turned her head to look at him. His face was close to hers. Cripes, but he was unattractive. She'd seen white boys who looked practically alabaster, but she couldn't tell where his white stage makeup ended and his real face began. But there was something about his expressiveness, especially those eyes. Those eyes seemed to go right into her. It was actors' charisma, she told herself. Even the most ugly troll ex-high school class clown could come across as a charmer, with enough talent. But this man didn't strike her as one of those. He wasn't an actor in the traditional sense, of losing himself in a role and easily tossing it aside for the next role, and the next. This guy… _was_. That was the only way she could think of it.

"So…." Beetlejuice's fingertip slowly traced the edge of her ear. "When was the last time _you_ got laid?"

"Oh gawd, B.J., OH GAWD! OH BLESSED JESUS!" Alice gasped. Her eyes rolled back, her back arched, and she dug her fingers into Beetlejuice's buttocks.

The least repressed member of a family of repressed Minnesota Lutherans on her mother's side and repressed Evangelical Baptists on her father's, Alice would later reflect how not only was this the first time she'd ever climaxed during sexual intercourse, and that it had been the most powerful climax she'd experienced in any way, shape or form, but on how frighteningly quickly and easily she'd melted for this guy.

His mouth had gone to a place no one’s mouth had ever touched before. Her clothes were scattered, she was flat on her back on the avocado-green Danish Modern couch, and his trousers were down to his ankles, before a tiny particle of Lutheran-Baptist alarm squirmed its way into her consciousness and suggested that maybe what was happening was not a good thing, dear?

Alice's body declared that it was a _very_ good, sinful, Church-Ladies-Would-Faint-Into-Their-Hotdish thing. It was almost like being _possessed_. Unfortunately, Alice couldn't blame supernatural forces. It'd been Free Will all the way. It was yet another thing she would never tell Mother.

But _holy buckets_ , was she ever going to tell her girlfriends! His stamina! His enthusiasm! His _size!_ His monster cock pounded depths never before fathomed, not even by a dildo, rubbing and stretching nerves so perfectly her cunt was singing Hallelujah. Her cum squeezed out around his thick piston and seeped down her ass, threatening to stain the couch.

"OH, _yeah_ , **baby!** " Beetlejuice, gripping the couch's arm, had been pacing himself until sweet, startled, but eager Alice had burst through her own Mystic Portal into Nirvana. He saw it as an investment, a way of securing the young writer's interests in this new project, and in his starring role in it. It was also a way of dusting the rust off his seduction chops, because he'd need to do a lot of convincing of a lot of people in the coming weeks. The added bonus was he was flipping the bird at Afterlife Rules. Cackling, he secured his mouth on the dark cinnamon nipples of Alice's small but firm and round breasts, clenched her ass, and grunted like a hog as his large, hairy balls shot pulse after pulse deep into her.

Beetlejuice was getting his rocks off in several ways. As far as he was concerned, it was only the beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

"'Transfunkafication?'"

Michael was six foot two. His white t-shirt, which read, in black, _Don't Bother Me, I'm in Character_ , was stretched over his tautly muscled torso. His jeans were equally well-fitted. He placed an Air Jordon Retro XI sneaker on the folding chair he'd been sitting in, and looked up from his script. His large, blue eyes glanced from Tou, Nickie, and Jonathan, to the writers. He didn't look at the guy who was the cause of all the changes.

Alice nodded. "That's what we're calling it."

"Cool." Tou's head bopped with excited anticipation. "Cool, cool. So what'm I like after the 'Transfunkafication?'"

"Think of a high energy, urban version of Michael J. Fox's Teen Wolf," said Sid.

Michael blew air out his lips. "'Urban.' Code word for 'Not Caucasian.' The 'animalistic' character as a thinly veiled caricature of an inner city person of color."

"Hey, Welsh Guy," said Tou, almost lost in his huge _Orlando Predators_ jersey, "you hear this Hmong Guy complaining?"

"We didn't intend it that way at all!" A person of color herself, Alice was alarmed and hurt.

Jonathan, who was the color of a Hershey bar and had a short flat-top, was wearing ripped stone-washed jeans and a t-shirt that read _Hemingway Look-Alike Contest, Sloppy Joe's Bar, Key West_. He grinned. " _I'm_ the only person of _color_ on the stage. I'm _green_."

Jonathan and Tou laughed and high-fived. Jonathan stuck his arms straight out in front of him and said in his best Frankenstein Monster voice, "Grrrrr, green _good!_ Can you dig it, brother man?"

Everyone chuckled, except Michael. When the room quieted, "B.J." sniffed, scratched his chin, and said, without looking at anyone, "So, spit it out, 'Drac.' Whut's yer beef?"

The tall young man focused on Alice, Sid, and Dan. "The rewrite is pretty drastic."

"It's an improvement." Nickie, in skinny jeans, white spike-heeled leather boots, and a red tank top, was rereading her script. "Mike, you _know_ it's an improvement."

"The Universal Monsters are a known brand." Michael shook the script in his hand. "This what's his name, 'Beetlejuice,' he's a character no one's ever heard of."

"You'll see, in the read-through." Alice's eyes flicked in the direction of B.J., who was leaning back in one of the rehearsal room's folding chairs.

"Th' brand's history, kid. It needs new blood." Beetlejuice examined his nails. "I'd think _you'd_ understand _that_."

Michael looked at Dan quizzically. "I'm sorry, is he a writer, a performer, or a producer? I'm not connecting with this."

Dan sounded as if he hadn't a lot of patience. Michael was his least favorite of the cast. Unfortunately, he was the best, as Dracula. He was a reliable performer. Dan wouldn't have put up with him if he were anything less. "Mike, you were introduced. B.J. Beetleman. He's your new cast member. He's 'Beetlejuice.' He's also a member of the writing team. I like the premise, and I like the script.

"You killed my song." Tou exaggerated a pout.

"Sorry," said Alice, feeling the loss more keenly than anyone. "I really loved 'The Howl of My Heart.' But it just doesn't fit into the revision."

"I thought this is a 'rock and roll' revue." Michael looked at the song list. "'I Will Survive' is disco."

"That was my idea." Alice's nose blushed. "I like that song."

"So do I," agreed Nickie, firmly. "I get to strut my stuff, instead of just…" She smiled apologetically at Alice. "Sorry, I loved 'Who Was I Made For?', really, I did. But I get to kick ass with _this_ song."

"They were nice songs. Original," Jonathan assured Alice. "It's sad you have to trash them."

"Well, nothing's _wasted_." Alice's face lit up as she added, obviously restraining some excitement, "Sid and I…we're working the old songs into a musical."

"We're really excited." Sid couldn't help but break into a toothy grin. He didn't even care that it had been B.J.'s idea, to Alice, and only through Alice to him. "The songs are great. They were just in the wrong venue. But, reworked, with a new story… Our agent's thinking Sir Cameron Mackintosh."

All the cast, save Michael, expressed congratulations on the new project. Michael was frowning at his script as if it were personally insulting him.

"Ooh, I get it." Nickie snorted. " _Somebody_ doesn't like losing center stage."

"Not that Dracula _was_ the lead character." Tou's tone had an edge.

The actress said, condescendingly, "In _this_ version, you'll have to actually interact with the rest of us, because _we'll_ finally have something to do, instead of just posing in the background while you do your song and chew the scenery. Oo, actual _acting. Scary_."

Sensing an impending disintegration, which could destroy his plot, Beetlejuice interrupted.

"Look." Beetlejuice scraped back his chair, walked from behind the table, and approached Michael. He stuck a thumb in the waist of his trousers and smiled. "See this?" He held up his right forefinger, and, pointing it toward the floor, made a swirling motion. "Know what that represents?"

"Is this going somewhere?"

"It represents this show, an' yer steady pay, goin' down th' can. _So_ ya lose yer spotlight song. 'The World Does My Bidding' _sucks_." He glanced over his shoulder at Alice. "Sorry, kid."

Alice smiled weakly and shrugged while chewing her thumbnail.

"The song's fine," said Sid, defensively. "It's just in the wrong setting."

Michael walked over to the long folding table and spoke pointedly to the director. "So now instead I get ' _Frankie's_ Girl?' That's an improvement?"

"It's not just you, Mike. You're not the only person in this role."

"That's the other thing." Michael turned and indicated Beetlejuice as if he were merely a fixture in the room, and not a part of the show's team. " _He's_ the only person playing 'Beetlejuice?'"

"I'm th' only one who _can_ play it," said the ghost.

Michael said, with certainty, to Dan, " _I_ could play it."

"I don't think so," said Beetlejuice.

"You're going to perform twice a day, seven days a week?"

"You got it."

"In the Florida heat?"

"Watch me."

Michael swiveled around and confronted Dan again. "And if he collapses from heat exhaustion, we, what? Cover for him?"

"That won't be happenin'." Beetlejuice's tolerance was becoming dangerously thin.

" _If_ it happens, you'll cover." Dan's words were chiseled in marble. "The same as you do when the fog machine doesn't operate and the pyros don't ignite on cue. It's not up for discussion, Mike."

"You can be replaced," said Beetlejuice through a clenched smile, " _Mike_."

For the first time, Michael gave his full attention to Beetlejuice. Five inches taller, he looked down on the ghost. "I've been with this show for two years."

"No, you were in _that_ show fer two years. You haven't even done th' first read-through of _this_ show. So, if ya wanna do th' first read-through of _this_ show, you'll take off yer Diva Tiara, shove it in a shoebox, wrap the box in duct tape, an' throw it in th' ocean."

The room was very quiet.

"Mike," said Nickie, "it's _better_."

" _Anything_ is better," Tou agreed.

"It's _work_ ," stated Jonathan.

Con men, _good_ ones, have an instinct for weak links. If a breakage would mean a plan falls apart, the good con man does damage control, immediately, until the goal is achieved. It might mean swallowing one's ego, but short-term piss-offedness has to be set aside for long-term success.

Beetlejuice slapped Michael on the back, startling him. "You'll love it, kid. You should see th' costume th' wardrobe lady's already got in mind for th' revamped Dracula. Get it? Revamped?" He cackled and punched the guy in the upper arm. "You'll have fangirls squeein' in th' aisles. But t'get _there_ , we gotta start _here_."

Michael formed his face into that of a trooper. "Sure." He grinned and punched Beetlejuice in the arm, but harder than the ghost had hit him. "What the hell. _I'm_ ready."

* * *

Debra Kass had seen a lot of entertainment contracts in her twenty year career. She could state with absolute certainty that she'd never encountered one like this before.

"He wrote this himself?" Debra asked Lou, who sat in the oxblood leather chair in front of her desk.

"So he claims." Lou had stopped being surprised by anything Beetleman did.

Debra whistled. "All the Is are dotted and the Ts crossed. If Beetleman isn't a former attorney, I wouldn't be surprised if he'd worked in the government. It takes a civil servant to be this anal retentive about the law."

"No loopholes?" Lou prided himself as an expert on contracts, but this one was unique. "No landmines?"

"No, not a one. It's perfectly straightforward. It's just… _what_ he's requesting. He wants cash payments, and a salary which is over scale. Are you and the Suits OK with that?"

The Suits had all but wet themselves with shock and joy during the blocked performance. The new show wasn't genius, and it wasn't going to win any awards, but it was, amazingly, twenty-five minutes of fun and entertainment for the target audience. Beetleman had joked and flirted with the execs as if they were just tourists from Left Buttock, Nebraska. He'd made Laura Neetleburn, C.E.O., smile. _Smile_. It had been company belief that this was an occurrence of infinitesimal possibility. The bastard had done it. That alone was reason to offer him a contract.

"His salary's been green-lighted," said Lou. "They couldn't care less if he's paid with cash or gold bullion."

"If he decides not to declare it to Uncle Sam, you may have a problem in the future."

"Deb, between you and me, I'm no stranger to talent with problems." Lou sighed and rubbed his left temple with two fingers. "We won't get into the teen starlet with a fondness for meth on celery. Or the sitcom lead who had to get a new laptop every month, to destroy the images unwisely stored on his hard drives. Or the singer and the home-made video of her and Bitsy, her teacup poodle. This guy wants cash? He's getting cash."

Deb smiled politely. "So this is why you left New York? And L.A.?"

"I'm not an ambitious man. Just let me get in a little sea bass fishing, that's all I ask of life. This job pays enough so that I can do it, with minimum drama."

"The other stipulation is that he alone performs in the role of 'Beetlejuice.' No swings, no understudy. If that character is the main draw, his being out due to sickness or an injury would be a big disruption."

"It's a risk we're willing to take."

Debra thought she'd need to see this actor perform, if a multinational, multimillion corporation believed he was worth such a risk. "How's his health?"

"Hard to say. He's got somewhat of a beer gut, but his energy is equal to the kids in the cast. He never even breaks a sweat."

"About possible injuries…" The attorney shook her head at a particular paragraph. "He's willing to pass on health, vision, and dental benefits, for a higher salary? Who in his right mind in America turns down health insurance? He's either cocky or stupid."

"Cocky he is. Stupid, no. Crazy like a fox, yes. He's been doing all this work on spec, _that_ sure we'd go for it."

Debra set down the contract. "There's nothing I suggest changing, Lou, as long as you and the executives are fine with his requirements. Sign away."

"Good." Lou took the contract, folded it, stuck it in an envelope, and slipped it inside his Franklin Covey leather Padfolio. "There's only one thing he has to do before that can happen."

* * *

"A physical?" Beetlejuice blinked, as if a ball had flown out of left field and conked him on the head.

"It's a requirement for all employees," said Lou.

"You never mentioned this before."

"We were never ready to sign a contract before. Now we are."

 _Shit._ Beetlejuice hadn't anticipated this at all, and that was alarming. "So, uh, who do I see?"

"There's a guy the studio sends everyone to." Lou handed the ghost a sheet with an address and other information on it.

"Is he on th' company's dime?"

"Yup. It's just routine. You don't even have to piss in a cup." Lou clapped Beetlejuice on the shoulder and led him out to the main office. He said to the receptionist, "Lynn, set up an appointment for Mr. Beetleman with Dr. Voysner, please. The sooner the better." To the ghost he said, "Rehearsal's nine a.m. Monday. Oh, and did you want to sit in on the auditions for Hip and Hop?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

"Great. They begin Monday at noon. Have that exam taken care of. Then you can start getting paid."

"Yeah, yeah. See ya." Beetlejuice stared after Lou as the director closed his office door.

"What time will work for you?" Lynn asked. "Dr. Voysner has an opening tomorrow, Friday, at ten a.m."

"Y'know," began the ghost, shaking a forefinger in the air as if he'd only just remembered something, "there's somethin' I gotta do. Lemme get back to you on that, kid."

"But rehearsals start Monday. They'll run most of the day, and the entire week. Dr. Voysner doesn't take evening appointments. You'll need to see him tomorrow."

"OK. Sure. What's he got later in the day?"

Lynn scrolled down her computer screen. "The only other time open is three p.m."

"Great." Beetlejuice folded the sheet and stuffed it in the inner pocket of his jacket. "Pencil me in." He headed for the door, trying not to walk too fast.

"See you Monday."

"You better believe it, hon.'"

Beetlejuice fast-walked to the nearest unoccupied hall, and vanished in thin air.

He reappeared in the Drawdy-Rouse Cemetery, which was small and rural. He'd read about it in a tourism flyer of _Most Haunted Places in Orlando_. He needed a quiet place to think, and to think fast. He didn't have much time.


	3. Chapter 3

Fucking the Living was against Afterlife Rules, but the Bureaucracy couldn't detect it.

Possession _could_ be detected.

Beetlejuice had never used Possession to boink a Live babe. Seduction was too much fun. His massive ego was certain he needed only his charm, wits, charisma and hot bod. He reminded himself that since Alice had come of her own free will, pun intended, there was nothing to alert Juno or the Office.

But as Beetlejuice sat in Dr. Voysner's waiting room, he'd already concluded that charm wasn't gonna be enough to get the physician to examine him and report that he was alive.

Beetlejuice had considered bribery. But he hadn't been paid yet.

Beetlejuice had considered physically threatening the man. But that wasn't his style. Sure, as a poltergeist, he'd been destructive and terrifying. He'd crossed the line numerous times, injuring a Live person or two -not _seriously_ , nothing that a little physical and psychological therapy wouldn't repair, in time, maybe. The Office had given him Section 7/Code Yellow/Class A warnings. But for Beetlejuice to threaten, "Write down that I'm a one hundred perfect physical specimen, or else" like a loser thug, just wasn't in his character.

Possession was the only option.

At first he'd sat on the beach, looking for candidates of healthy men to possess, who'd take the exam in his place. But if the doc ever saw Beetlejuice perform, he'd know that the man who'd called himself B.J. Beetleman in his examination room wasn't the same man who was on stage, making the babes wet.

Naw, there was only one choice. Possess the doc. That meant sending a ripple through the veil between Life and Afterlife that could be sensed by the Authorities.

If it was a short enough possession, the ripple would only be the equivalent of a _ping_ on a radar screen. He knew how Afterlife civil servants worked. They'd probably be too busy gossiping, or sleeping, or messing around, or sucking down coffee, to be watching the radar when it pinged. Even _if_ they saw it, they wouldn't react unless it reoccurred. All Beetlejuice needed was enough time to get the doc to sign whatever the hell forms he had stating that the prospective employee was fit for work. Five minutes. Not much of a ripple.

The nurse poked her head into the waiting room. "Dr. Voysner will see you now."

"Yeah. Sure. Thanks, babe." Beetlejuice put down the six month old copy of _Variety_ and stood up.

"You're welcome. And I'm not your 'babe.'"

"Ya wanna be?" he said as he walked past her, wiggling his eyebrows.

The nurse rolled her eyes and shoved him into a small room down the hall.

"Now" was evidently relative. Thirty-eight minutes passed as the ghost sat in the small, cold examination room, shredding the paper cover on the exam table and glowering at posters about STDs and the proper way to perform the Heimlich Maneuver.

There were also small posters from various musicals. Beetlejuice _hated_ musicals. Cheesy, stupid, sentimental shit. The twenty-minute revue was as much as he could stand, and then only because it was gonna make him money and get him laid. If it kept him out of assigned haunting and the eternal boredom of the Neitherworld, all this effort and risk-taking was worth it.

Just as he was about to hunt down the doctor, there was an abrupt rap on the door. Immediately it was pushed open.

A dour, older man entered. A permanent scowl seemed carved into his face. His blue eyes were as cold as the ghost's blood. In contrast to his white lab coat, his skin was the color of day-old oatmeal. He was clutching a clipboard as if it were a weapon.

The man's gray eyebrows rose and his lip smirked. "I see you're still dressed." He had an accent. Having run into ghosts from around the world, Beetlejuice identified it as Australian.

Beetlejuice snorted. "Hey, doc, ya gotta at least give me flowers and take me out t'dinner before th' clothes come off."

The physician's icy smile cracked. "Yes. You're an _actor_."

It took the ghost a second to realize that that was indeed what he was pretending to be. "You got it."

"I _loathe_ actors."

 _Th' fuck?_ "Then givin' them examinations for a livin' must give ya tiny thrills runnin' all through yer body."

The doctor slammed the clipboard down on the counter, making the glass jar of long cotton swabs jump. "Oh, you _are_ an excessively _clever_ one. I imagine it's compensation for that hideous visage Nature bestowed on you."

The ghost didn't need any more encouragement to possess this jerk. His smile was oily. "Hey, Chuckles, would ya step a little closer fer a sec?"

"Do you know _why_ I _loathe_ actors, Mr..," Dr. Voysner glanced at the clipboard, " _Beetleman_?"

"Just a foot or two closer, I think I see something in yer eye…"

"Because…" The doctor's voice strained as he took one step toward Beetlejuice. "Do you have even an _atomic particle_ of an idea what it is to have above average talents and abilities, and to be _discouraged_ from using them?"

The closer proximity allowed the ghost to catch a whiff of vodka on the physician's breath.

 _ **Shit.**_ Possessing a Living person who was under the influence of alcohol was like trying to drive a car with bad steering and no brakes. That was fine, as long as your intention was to crash. It did more than _ping_ Afterlife Bureaucracy's Possession Radar. It set off an alarm.

Trying to buy time and quickly concoct an alternative plan, Beetlejuice agreed, "Yeah, I've been there."

" _Have_ you? Did your parents encourage you to enter the profession of theatrics, Mr. Beetleman?"

Beetlejuice snickered. "Uh, not as such."

"Ah." Dr. Voysner stepped back, stuffing his knotty fists in his coat pockets and regarding the ghost with a less withering glare. "You weren't? So you know what it is to be _hampered_?"

"Hey," said Beetlejuice, with actual sincerity, "I got abilities you would not _believe_ , I mean _seriously_ , you would not be able t' comprehend th' things I can do. But am I _encouraged_ to do 'em?" The ghost blew air through his lips and threw his arms wide in a gesture of frustration. "It's envy, pure an' simple, doc. The Bureaucracy, losers who don't have th' talents _I_ do, they got all these friggin' _Rules_. Just t'keep me 'in my place,' so I won't show them up. Know whut I mean?"

The doctor's expression softened from craggy to doughy. "I see I've made a premature judgment on the scope of your intelligence, Mr. Beetleman. Yes. Yes, I can wholly identify with what you describe." He lowered his voice and emphatically jabbed a finger at his chest. "They were _jealous_. That's the reason! Envy! Jealousy! The Tall Poppy Syndrome!"

The man looked over his shoulder at the door, then went to a glass jar on the counter labeled _Rubbing Alcohol_. He removed the steel lid and drank three gulps. He offered the jar to Beetlejuice.

"I never have rubbin' alcohol before dinner," he said.

"Idiot. It's Stolichnaya Elit. Grain vodka, from Russia."

"Well, hey, as long as yer buyin'." Beetlejuice took the jar. "Skoll." The vodka was pretty damn fine.

" _I_ was headed for the National Institute of Dramatic Arts," said Voysner. "In Kensington."

"England?"

Dr. Voysner grabbed the jar from Beetlejuice's hand. " _Australia_. Bleeding Yank. It's always 'England, England, England!' You overthrown the British Monarchy and kick them off your shores, and you still _love them_. You claim to despise the Royals, but the moment one of their inbred little buggers announces a marriage in order to perpetuate their wretched species, you Yanks go completely _mad_ with glee." He drank half the jar's remaining contents.

"So. You wanted t'be an actor." Beetlejuice didn't know where this was going, but his con-artist instinct told him to just ride with it for a while. If Voysner kept up his intake, with any luck he'd pass out. If he was as much a lush as the ghost was certain he was, he'd had more than a few blackouts in his time. Beetlejuice could claim that he'd had an exam, and the doc, having passed out drunk as a frat pledge, and not wanting to have his license revoked, probably wouldn't dare contradict him.

"My high school Dramatics instructor declared that I had above average potential. He himself came to tea to encourage my parents to send me to NIDA." Voysner's voice became vinegar. "But my _parents_ , and _their_ parents, and my aunts, uncles, and innumerable pig-ignorant cousins, stated in no uncertain terms that I was from a long line of physicians. No Voysner had ever trod the boards and smeared on greasepaint, nor would, as long as the world would benefit from our natural gifts for healing."

Beetlejuice had heard shorter soliloquies from the late Edmund Kean, and _that_ guy never shut up. "So you went t' medical school."

Voysner's nostrils flared. "It was my finest role. I played the dedicated healer, a champion of the Hippocratic Oath, to the hilt. No one ever doubted the faithfulness of my heart."

 _I'm gonna puke_. Beetlejuice smiled and nodded, meanwhile trying to come up with a new plan.

Voysner took another long drink. He offered the jar to Beetlejuice, who shrugged and took it. "In the rare respite I had from studying the disgusting human body and the many grotesque things that can and do go wrong with it, I tortured myself by attending the theatre. Worse than my not being in the spotlight was witnessing the feckless inadequacies of those who _were_. I saw Hamlet eviscerated, Ophelia raped, and Willy Loman sodomized."

Beetlejuice blinked while taking a drink. He did a Spit Take and laughed. "OH. You don't mean _really. Metaphorically_. Shit, too bad, man. I was gonna say that'd be one hell of a show."

"Good god, you're a true vulgarian, aren't you?"

"Actually I'm a Leo, but hey, whatever. _So_. You examinin' theme park actors is yer way of being a part of th' performin' arts, is that it?"

Voysner grabbed the jar from the ghost's hand. "Here I took you for an intelligent man." He drained it. "So you think I consider it participation in show business to stick my gloved finger up actors' arses and tell them to cough?"

"Hey, from what I've heard about show biz, that's how a lot of actors get their start. Maybe not with gloved _fingers_." Beetlejuice noticed Voysner didn't join him in his laugh. "Uh, you weren't planning on doin' that, y'know, with me, were ya? Th' finger, I mean. 'Cause, doc, I gotta tell ya, I'm ticklish."

"You have an authentically puerile sensibility." The doctor slammed the jar on the counter. Amazingly, the glass didn't shatter. "I don't dirty my hands on you spoiled brats of Fortune." He grinned. It made Beetlejuice think of a corpse he knew, who, due to complications of rigor mortis, was going through Eternity with a hideous mockery of a perky smile. "Do you know what I _do_?"

"Haven't a clue."

Voysner hissed, " _Nothing_."

Beetlejuice hesitated. He squinted. "Toss that by me again; th' first one went into th' weeds."

" _This_ is what I do." Dr. Voysner picked up his clipboard, brandished a pen, and pretended to write. "Beetleman, B.J., age…" He glared at the ghost, demanding audience participation.

"Thirty-seven." _An' then some._

"Thirty-seven, height blah blah, weight blah blah, was examined by me, Dr. Eric Voysner, PhD., M.D., and was found to be of sound mind and body, hale and hearty and fully capable of performing. Signed…" He faked signing with a flourish. His icy blue eyes challenged Beetlejuice to comprehend.

Con men can often spot their own kind, given enough time to observe them. A slow, feral smile pulled Beetlejuice's lips from his mossy overbite.

"You never do exams. You don't care if performers are healthy, or _not_. They could have heart problems, high blood pressure, undiagnosed diabetes, knee ligaments on th' verge of snappin, an' you wouldn't know. So Curious George could collapse on a toddler he's huggin', Captain America could grab his chest an' keel over."

"It wouldn't be _my_ problem," said Voysner.

"This is, what? A sick, twisted, sideways revenge for not becomin' an actor? Endangerin' innocent performers who never did anythin' to ya?"

Voysner raised his chin haughtily. " _Vous avez raison_."

"That is truly evil." Beetlejuice held out his hand. "A man after my own black heart."

Voysner was taken aback. Seeing the ghost's sincerity, he shook his hand as if meeting a fan who wanted his autograph.

"No one's ever reported ya fer not doin' an exam?" said Beetlejuice.

"Why would they? Were _you_ eager for me to dress you in a thin cloth shift that was open in the back, and to grope you as if you were a five dollar whore? Are _you_ going to tell?"

"Naw, but I got fewer ethics than th' next guy. Unless that guy happens to be Al Capone." Beetlejuice snorted. "But, what about yer nurse?"

"She doesn't know and she doesn't care. I pay her well enough that she's quite satisfied to leave me alone and simply replace the paper on the tables and restock the cotton balls. She's trained to take blood and urine samples, but I would never need them, unless I believed a patient may have something that needed further investigation."

"An' she doesn't question that ya never need them?"

"She brings in my patients, then sits and knits, while earning a very nice income. Do you truly believe she'd complain?"

"An' all the while, Universal Studios is payin' you a physician's salary. I'm in awe, man."

Voysner put his hand to his heart and bowed his head, as if he were on stage with roses being thrown at him.

"So, uh…" Beetlejuice jerked his thumb at the door. "I can walk?"

"Hail and farewell, Beetleman. The report of your glowing good health will be winging its way to Human Resources anon." They shook hands again. "Perhaps I'll take in this little 'revue' of yours, though its synopsis makes me suspect it will be truly wretched. Perhaps after we can commune over drinks."

"If ya come see it, lemme know." Beetlejuice mimed doffing his cap at the doctor as he left. He shook his head as he walked out of the clinic and around to the back of the building. "When that guy bites the Big One, he's gonna make one hell of a poltergeist."

The rumble of Orlando traffic covered the crack of lightning and thunder as the ghost vanished.

* * *

"Beetleman is sitting in on the auditions?" Dan was not pleased. The difference between telling when Dan was pleased and not pleased was in the thinness of his lips. Pleased, one could see that, yes, indeed, there were something that resembled lips surrounding his mouth. Displeased, and his mouth looked like that of a gray alien.

"He's the one who'll be interacting with Hip and Hop the most," said Lou. "You'll want to see if there's chemistry."

"That had occurred to me. I was going to have him read-through with candidates _after_ I chose callbacks."

"He's here. Just let him observe and throw in his two cents."

"Are you telling me my job?" Dan's voice was as nonexpressive as ever, but his lips had disappeared.

"Have I ever?"

"No. So, _now_ , are you telling me my job?"

Lou sighed. He should have joined the family business. Italian restaurants had a completely different kind of drama, as well as good food. It probably wouldn't have given him acid reflux. "'Beetlejuice' is the keystone. What harm will it do?"

"As long as he clearly understands that he has no say in the callbacks, or in the final selections."

"I'll make a point of it to him. Are we cool?"

"No. But he can sit in, for as long as he keeps his mouth shut. Sometimes he acts as if _he_ runs this show."

* * *

Benjamin Miles was a bitter ghost.

He had no idea how the legend about him began. It was extremely frustrating, as he could do nothing to stop it or to correct the lies.

He did _not_ die in 1840. He was _not_ an angry or violent ghost. He did not truck with owls, whose screeches did _not_ announce his "eerie, malevolent nightly presence," as one Internet Website claimed. He had yet to see an Internet or a Website, but other ghosts had told him about the page, and laughed at its inaccuracy.

The only truth was that his grave _was_ unmarked, but it hadn't always been. He once had a fine, white marble headstone. So fine, in fact, that it was stolen. By whom or to what purpose, Benjamin Miles never learned.

If anyone had cared to dig through the microfiche of the local history archives at the Orlando Public Library, they would have discovered the truth, just as it was written in his obituary in the _Orlando Sentinel_ of 1917.

Benjamin Miles had been a citrus baron, having bought up many groves which had been severely damaged during the Great Freeze of 1894 and 1895. He had been sitting on his porch, drinking limeade, and chuckling over a new newspaper comic strip called _The Gumps_ , when he heard a horrid racket such as none he'd ever heard before. A cloud of dust was barreling down the dirt road as if it were a live thing. He had set down his paper, walked out into the road, and then excitedly called to his wife, son, and maid, who hurried out to the porch.

Benjamin Miles' last words were, "Oh! Say! Isn't that one of those auto-mobiles?"

The _Orlando Sentinel_ reported that Benjamin Miles was the first auto-mobile fatality in the county by the first auto-mobile in the county.

His wife, son and maid, now all deceased, stayed in the Neitherworld and were too embarrassed to have anything to do with him. "It was only going twelve miles an hour, you fool," was all his wife said to him after she Crossed Over.

Following several decades sulking around the Drawdy-Rouse cemetery near Rouse Road in Orlando, depressing the other ghosts with his never-ending complaint of having "gone before my time," his Case Worker assigned him to haunt Future World at Disney's EPCOT Center. The irony of haunting a park about the Future after having his cut short had added to Benjamin Miles' bitterness. He didn't scare the tourists so much as create an atmosphere where they thought the place needed a good scrubbing with bleach.

Benjamin's file was transferred to Juno. She had no sense of humor and no patience. She assigned him to Disney's Haunted Mansion. In any ghost's opinion, this was an insult reserved for pissy little shits.

In a concession, in 2000 Juno signed the paperwork which allowed Benjamin Miles to move back and forth between the cemetery, the Haunted Mansion, and Universal Orlando's "Wantilan Luau," a weekly pseudo-authentic Hawaiian dinner show. Juno knew that Benjamin had been fascinated with the "Sandwich Islands" ever since they'd become a state. She also knew that he came of age in a time when a glimpse of the ankle of a woman's kid boot was erotic. Juno hoped the bikini-topped young women with whiplashing-hips would cheer him up.

They didn't. They made him worse. He wanted them, and couldn't have them. That was absolutely beyond question: for the Dead to have Marital Relations with the Living would be breaking one of the oldest Rules. Besides, he was still married, as far as he was concerned. A Mason and Civic Booster, Benjamin Miles had always obeyed rules. He'd relied on them to govern him in Life, and depended on them equally as much to govern his Afterlife.

This is why he noticed Beetlejuice.

Benjamin Miles didn't like loud, noisy, belligerent, arrogant, vulgar people. The poltergeist was all of those, and more. Benjamin didn't like poltergeists, period. They were rare, and therefore considered themselves a special Class.

This poltergeist hung around the cemetery without invitation or permission. To the Dead, this was simply rude. He treated it as if it were a hotel, disappearing for hours at a time, and reappearing to lounge about. He never attempted to engage in conversation; indeed, he never acknowledged Benjamin Miles' presence at all beyond a, "Hi, how are ya?" He came and went between the Living World and the Dead as if he had his own, personal turnstile.

This poltergeist had the freedom of an unsupervised adolescent. Why was it allowed? All poltergeists had strict, unbreakable Rules about in what way they could manifest into the Living world. Who had let this one out, and why hadn't they put him back? Discipline and regularity built character, and it was Benjamin Miles' opinion that the new haunter of the Drawdy-Rouse cemetery was sorely lacking in that.

Benjamin Miles decided to have a _talk_ with this personage, if and when he returned.

* * *

"I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair,  
I'm gonna wash that _man_ right _outta my—"_

"Thank you," Dan pressed the eraser on his pencil into his upper lip, "Candy."

Alice made a sound that could have been a cough.

"It's my actual name from birth." The young woman aimed her smile at each of them in turn. She focused it where it found the warmest reception.

Beetlejuice was leaning back in the folding chair behind the long folding table. His eyes were fixed not on Candy's even, brilliantly white teeth, as she believed, but on her other attributes, which were also probably not natural, but far more impressive. The cheerleading outfit, which she'd claimed to have been her "actual one" from high school, had evidently been fitted before Candy had enhanced what Nature had created. It had a lot less coverage than the ghost thought a football team would allow.

The skirt was higher, too.

"I can dance again," Candy offered.

"Oh yeah," chimed in Beetlejuice. Both Dana and Alice looked at him. "Go for it, babe."

It wasn't a dance, but a cheer. A very vigorous cheer.

"Well. We know she can hop," Alice whispered dryly.

Dan whispered, "No. No, this won't work."

Beetlejuice's eyes were moving up and down, wondering how long the coverage of her ginormous tits would continue, since the momentum was threatening to break the packaging. A part of his consciousness wondered if the bouncing was painful. The rest of his brain and his body didn't care.

Dan whispered, "She's too distracting."

"I agree," said Alice. She elbowed Beetlejuice. "Don't you agree?"

"Whut?" _Oh shit, she just did a cartwheel and landed in splits. There she is, that mountain range heavin' like there's an earthquake._

"I said," Alice repeated, with a sharper, lower whisper, "she's too distracting for the role."

 _Yeah, stand up an' grin at me, honey. Forget them, concentrate on me._ "You say somethin', kid?"

"Thank you, miss." Dan voice was stone.

"I can do movements other than cheers!" Candy insisted. "I'm amazingly limber."

"Yes, thank you. We have your information."

"Thank you for your time!" Candy was obviously putting her best face forward as she left the room.

"I think we got our Hop," Beetlejuice proclaimed. "Or Hip. Either one."

"What? No!" Alice looked affronted. "Yes, she can sing very well. And move….very well. But her…. She doesn't have the _look_."

" _I_ came up with th' character," said Beetlejuice. "I think I'd know what th' chick would look like."

"Chick? Boy, did you say ' _chick_?'" Alice glared at her yellow legal pad and tucked her hair behind her ears.

"What?" snapped the ghost, sensing anger.

"Her tits are too big. Period." Dan took the young woman's headshot, demo CD and resume and dropped them in the _No Callback_ pile.

"Hey! We shouldn't discriminate on account of size!" said Beetlejuice.

"Do you want the audience looking at _you_ ," countered Alice, "or looking at _those_? Or, to be more specific," she pointed at his crotch, "at _that_?"

She had a point. "Yeah, they do kinda…bounce a lot."

"Oh, please." Alice snickered, crossing her arms over her chest. "It looked like she was juggling basketballs."

"I said no, Beetleman," said Dan.

"Yeah, hey, message received. I got no say in this."

Beetlejuice glanced at Alice. She was biting her upper lip and frowning. Not good. He couldn't afford to displease the show's main writer, not while the script was undergoing revisions. After performances began, and after he wowed the audiences enough to keep 'em coming, then Beetlejuice wanted Alice and Sid to focus all of their attention on their new project, a West End musical. That's why he'd suggested the idea to the young woman, having guessed that was her true dream. Once she was fixated on _that,_ Alice would be out of the picture, and no longer have any say in the revue and what he did in it.

* * *

Dan and the accompanist were talking as they shut off the audition room lights and closed the door. They gave Beetlejuice a nod and left.

Beetlejuice headed for the Woman's Room down the hall. He leaned his back against the wall beside the door. He spit into his palm and ran it over his hair. He checked his fingernails. He pulled back the top of his trousers and made sure he was wearing the clean pair of briefs. Proudly, he snapped it back, placed his inter-laced fingers behind his head, and listened to the toilet flush, and the sounds of running water and a hand dryer.

Alice, looking forlorn, came out.

"So where've you been?" said Beetlejuice in a low voice.

"OH!" Alice jumped and lost her balance. Beetlejuice grabbed her left wrist and pulled her against him.

"Where've _I_ been?" Alice's eyes were simultaneously sharp and shy. "I, you… Unlike _some_ people, I've been _working_ on this show!"

"Day _and_ night?" He had intentionally kept out of communication with the young woman, slipping away when she approached. You had to keep them guessing. Absence made the hormone's grow hotter. And holding himself back was gonna make it all the sweeter when she succumbed.

"You could have called." Alice winced at the petulance in her tone, and at the fact that she was gripping the front of his magenta shirt. She'd stopped wondering why he insisted on wearing his character costume all the time. He was an actor. That was explanation enough.

"Don't have yer number."

"You could have asked for it!"

Beetlejuice stuck his pointed nose in her hair at the base of her neck and inhaled. "You've been so busy, babe. Didn't want t'interrupt yer concentration." He moved his nose up to her ear and whispered, "But yer kinda tense t'night. I think ya need t'… _relax_."

"I do not need to relax!" Alice barked.

"C'mon. You're not _comparin'_ , are ya?" Beetlejuice nuzzled her neck as his hand snaked under her t-shirt, then inside her bra. _She's wearin' lace, not her industrial-strength sports bra. I think someone's thirstin' for some 'Juice._ "You gotta know I think you're fine. You're _more_ than fine."

Alice closed her eyes. Dracula had nothing on this guy. She wanted to punch him, and instead her hands were sliding inside his unbuttoned jacket and around his torso. _Bastard._

"I've got….a meeting with…um…" Alice breathed, bending her head back.

"What's his face?" Beetlejuice nipped her neck. His right hand first cupped, then squeezed, her right buttock inside her khaki shorts. His left hand traveled south.

"Yeah…"

"That gonna take _all_ night?"

"I…we'll…probably Sid'll leave after...oh god, don't touch _that_ here, somebody might come!"

"I'm hopin' it's _you_." Beetlejuice expertly expressed himself with his fingers. Alice shut her eyes and buried her face in his shoulder to smother her moan. "Midnight, babe?"

"Eleven," she mumbled into his shoulder. "I'll throw Sid out."

"Your place?"

She nodded enthusiastically.

"Address?"

She told him. Alice slammed a kiss on the ghost, then pushed him away and hurried down the hall, adjusting her clothes and hair as she went.

Beetlejuice smoothed his shirt triumphantly. "Down, boy," he ordered his favorite body part. "Ya gotta wait two hours."

The building was part of Universal Studios Plaza, located outside the theme park. It was nine p.m., so all the corporate offices were closed. Beetlejuice waved to the security guard, opened the door to the back parking lot, and looked around to see if the coast was clear to vanish.

It wasn't.

"Hey!" The blonde, Candy, popped out of a fine looking ride, a luxury sedan, and waved at him vigorously. She hurried to him.

"I was _so_ hoping you were still here," she said, breathlessly. "Of course I had no idea _which_ door you might come out of. Or when you'd leave. I knew auditions ended at nine, I saw the director and the girl, the writer, come out."

Her inflection went up at the end of her sentences, which at first made the ghost think she was asking questions. He shook his head and laughed. "OK, think I got it. You've been waitin' for one an' a half hours, out here? Fer _me_?"

Her head bobbed up and down as if on a spring.

 _Oh, yeah. It's a stereotype come t'life. I love it_. "Well, I'm just flattered as hell, sweetheart." He slipped his arm around her waist and asked, with half-lidded eyes, "Whut makes _me_ so special?"

"You're the star," she gasped. Evidently hauling those twin peaks around required extra energy. Either that, or she was doing a bad imitation of Marilyn Monroe's breathiness.

He grinned. "Th' one an' only."

"The director and the writer, they weren't encouraging. But _you_ recognized my abilities. I could see it in your eyes."

"Oh, hey." Beetlejuice shook his head. "I never go by first impressions. I'm not _convinced_ of yer abilities. _Yet_."

Candy spoke with authority, as if trying to impress the "actor" with her research, "The audition website page's description says, about Hip and Hop, 'They are very playful and flirtatious and unlike other characters in the show, they have no supernatural powers. Instead, they use their movements and sensuality to control and mesmerize men.'" Candy beamed. "I can do that."

"You can do that?"

Candy grabbed the "star's" hands and hopped in place, setting things, two very large things, in motion. "I can do that!"

Beetlejuice hopped with her. "You can do that!"

The young woman stopped. She pressed her palms up his shiny magenta shirt. "I'm oh so very convincing at mesmerizing."

"I dunno. Th' director…"

"You're the _star_. You get to pick who you perform with, don't you?"

 _Yeah, I pick who I perform with. Just not on stage._ "Maybe."

"I bet you've got a lot of influence."

"Babe, you got no idea."

She said, in a baby-doll whisper, "I really, _really_ need this job. I rented a car just so I could come to this audition. I work at Macy's, in the Louis Vuitton department, but I've been taking classes, acting, dancing, dramatic movement, that's not the same as dancing, and I-"

Beetlejuice held her full lips together with his forefinger and thumb. His preference was women with brains. Because he bored so easily, he needed intelligent minds for stimulation. His body, however, had no preference. Middle-aged, young, short, tall, thin, large, every color of the rainbow, they could be dumb as a stack of toast, his body didn't give a fuck. Or, rather, it did, and as often as possible. So what if this girl would never play Hedda Gabler? Who was gonna refuse free Candy?

"Honey," he tightened his arm around her waist and directed her toward her car, "how d'ya feel about long, moonlit drives?"

* * *

The Orlando Police cruiser didn't notice the rental car parked behind the shaggy-moss trees overlooking Lake Rowena, so it moved on.

"OH, B.J., you're so fine, oh GOD…" Candy's blonde hair was flying as she sang. Naked, the moonlight made her all-over tan look blue. "…. you're so fine you blow my mind, ah, AH! Ohm'gawd, what's _happenin_ '?"

Plunging his cock upwards, its thickness barely allowing the girl's juices to squeeze out, Beetlejuice held off shooting by concentrating on the amazing and slightly frightening bouncing only a few inches above his nose. As Candy neared climax, her pink fingernails dug into the top of the sedan's back seat and her hips jumped up and down faster. Holy crap, but the girl could hop those hips, Beetlejuice thought as he gripped them. Her thighs had to have steel springs.

Candy, for whom orgasm had been merely a working theory, made a guttural cry and collapsed forward on the man she was straddling, gasping. Had he been alive, Beetlejuice would have been in danger of suffocation. But what a way to go. He placed his hands on her oversized bust and pushed it back from his face, then began his own rapid hip movements. His cold, dead cum spurted into her as he repeatedly grunted with delight.

It gave new meaning to "sitting in on auditions."

* * *

Alice gathered up the notes from her brain-storming with Sid, and stuck them in a manila folder. She cleared off the living room table. Having been lost in the creative surge, she had no idea what the time was. So when she felt a tap on her shoulder, she screamed.

"Gotcha," said Beetlejuice.

"I! You! _You!"_ Alice slapped his cheek, her face flushed red. " _You scared me!_ "

"Good. Otherwise I'd think you weren't glad t'see me." He rubbed his face.

"How did you get in?" Alice stared at her apartment door, which looked closed and secure.

"It was unlocked," he lied.

"It locks automatically!"

"Well, honey, it didn't this time. All I know is, I turned th' knob an', boom, it opened." _'Course, I actually just manifested behind you, but, hey, what you don't know can't hurt me._

"That wasn't funny!" Alice, from a large family where there were always siblings under foot, had still not adapted to living alone. Her mother constantly forwarded her news headlines about single women found dead in their own homes. "Girls of color are _especially targeted_ ," her white Mom reminded her mixed daughter. Repeatedly.

"Babe…." Beetlejuice rubbed her shoulders and looked in her face. "Ya _definitely_ need some 'Juice t'shake ya loose. C'mere."

"What is that _smell_?"

Beetlejuice paused and inhaled. _**Fuck.** Candy's "Dream Angels" perfume. I shoulda gone t' th' graveyard t' change briefs,_

"I got spritzed by a perfume clerk in th' mall," he said.

"What mall?"

"Who knows? They all look alike."

"What were _you_ doing in a mall, and in costume?"

Beetlejuice cupped her face in his hands. "Babe, babe, turn off th' _mind_. It needs t'put its feet up an' have a nap. Time 'o let th' body have all th' fun."

His tongue was in her mouth when she pushed him away, but without much conviction. "What is this to you? I mean, it's not a _relationship_ , we've only been…together… _one time_ , and you don't take me to dinner or anyplace, and I…I can't even tell my _mother_ about you-"

"Ah." Beetlejuice nodded. "Mothers. Y'know, kid," he held up his palms and stepped back, "I would never wanna do anythin' that made ya uncomfortable."

"I wasn't saying _that_." Alice was surprised that she was alarmed that he was retreating.

"Naw, it's not a good thing, not being able t' be open with yer mother." He moved around Alice, his hands in his trouser pockets, and gazed at the framed family photos on Alice's bookshelves. "Yer family means so much to ya."

"Yes, but, I didn't mean it that way…I was just wondering…"

"An' yer Dad. How would _he_ feel?"

Alice _never_ talked to her Dad about relationships. Because Dad would tilt his head and demand, "What's the boy's _name?_ " She'd dated boys of all ethnicites in high school, and her father's reaction was equally "I will _mess_ you _up_ " if he saw them so much as holding her hand.

"That's . . . not something we talk about," Alice squeaked.

"So ya only confide in yer Mom. That's so sweet! Lookit how important she is t' ya." Beetlejuice walked through the open door to Alice's bedroom and took an oval framed photo off her nightstand. He looked at the young woman with large, damp eyes. "You even have her lookin' over yer _bed_."

"Yes…" Alice's freckled nose wrinkled. "I never really thought about that before. Actually, _she_ put that there."

"Did she? Oh, right. So she can look over ya, even while ya sleep. An' while ya do other things. In this bed. Her dear, maternal blue eyes, starin' at what happens in yer bed."

"Uh…yes…" Alice frowned. "Nothing ever has."

Beetlejuice set the photo on the nightstand. He lay on the neatly made bed, his right arm behind his head on the pillow, and his legs splayed wide apart. He grinned and waved his left hand at the photograph. "Hi, Alice's Mother."

"Stop it." Alice grabbed the picture. She was instantly at a loss where to put it.

"Look, sweetheart, ya don't wanna do anythin' you'd be ashamed of dear ol' Mother findin' out. Ya want t' be able to go back t' yer hometown, an' go t' th' Minnesota Church buffet with yer parents an' brothers an' sisters, an' eat potato salad with Swedish meatballs, without feelin' bad. Having me as yer dirty lil' secret would just be _wrong_."

"Will you shut up?" Alice looked at her bedroom's dresser and bookshelves, searching for a place for the portrait.

"Look at her. Even now yer Mother's eyes are just tskin' at me bein' on yer clean, cool bed with th' really crisp sheets. Shit, whaddaya do, _iron_ them? If yer Mother's _image_ disapproves, just think how Pastor Nordquist an' th' Shriners an' th' Ladies Knittin' Guild of Lake Wobegon or wherever th' hell yer from would think of ya havin' me on top of yer glorious naked bod-"

"Shut _up!_ " Alice stomped on the pedal of her trash can, and the lid popped open. She dropped in the photo, slammed down the lid, yanked off her sandals, and jumped onto the bed.

" _Give it to me!"_ she demanded. " _Rip off my clothes with your teeth! Put your tongue where it's not supposed to be! Hump me till the bed breaks! Make me yell till the windows crack! Goddammit,_ _ **do it**_!"

Beetlejuice sighed. "Well. OK. But only because you insist."

* * *

"Call me _Daddy_ ," Beej hissed her Alice's ear, pounding away from behind as he lay on top of her.

"Aaa! AAA, oh LORD!" She'd never before been flat on her stomach, a pillow raising her hips to the rapid-fire thrusts of a lover, his hands gripping hers and his teeth clamped on her hair. "Daddy! Oh DADDY!"

"Is my sweet cinnamon baby gonna _cum?!_ "

"YES, DADDY, _YES!_ " Alice threw her legs as wide apart as possible as his massive cock battered her. When the shuddering hit she screamed, _"Glory Hallelujah!!"_

* * *

Benjamin Miles was indignant. This behavior was truly insufferable.

"Sir! You there!" He marched across the cemetery, shaking his forefinger.

The poltergeist was wearing only a tacky red-plaid _dressing gown_ , tied not too securely around his waist. He had no shirt or trousers underneath. He was lying in a _lawn chair_ , a _cigarette_ between his lips. There were beer cans, cigarette butts, and half eaten bugs on the grass around him.

"Put that out at once, sir!" Benjamin Miles demanded, looming over the reclining ghost.

"Fuck off," the poltergeist said around his cigarette.

"Such barbarous language! You're a spectacle! Have you no respect?!"

"Asshole," snarled the ghost, "yer ruinin' my post-coital buzz. Get lost."

"Your _what_?"

Beetlejuice chuckled. "Two babes in two hours. A personal best."

"That is revolting, sir!"

"Guess ya had t'be there. Glad you weren't. I'm not inta _ménage a trois_ with guys. Now take a hike before ya really piss me off."

"Is that a threat? I have been a ghost in good standing in this cemetery for 94 years! I will not allow some upstart ' _noisy ghost'_ to turn a respectable place of rest and memorial into his personal-"

Beetlejuice's eyes opened, and they were burning yellow. With a sneer, he flicked his hand at the other ghost. Benjamin Miles promptly vanished in a burst of gold sparks.

He reappeared, knee-deep in the river of Disney's "It's a Small World" ride. The poltergeist's magic triggered the animatronics. Benjamin Miles was abused with a chirpy chorus of "There is just one moon, and one gold-en sun, and a smile means friend-ship to every-one…"

Somehow, the poltergeist's superior power had short-circuited Benjamin Miles' limited abilities. He couldn't vanish. He slogged down the river toward the Exit, swearing that somehow, in some way, he'd have revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benjamin Miles allegedly is a real ghost haunting the Drawdy-Rouse Cemetery in Orlando, Florida. https://www.floridahauntedhouses.com/real-haunt/rouse-cemetery.html
> 
> According to Real Haunted Places in Florida, "Legend claims that the small, rural cemetery on Rouse Road and nearby woods are haunted by a ghost from the 1840s, Benjamin Miles, whose nightly presence is signaled by an owl screeching. Mr. Miles, often in tan-colored work clothes, was buried in an unmarked grave, and is an angry ghost." https://hollowhill.com/real-haunted-places-in-florida/
> 
> I made up my own backstory of him.
> 
> He's yet to show up and tell me I'm wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

Why the hell hadn't he discovered Florida sooner? The place was packed with Beetlejuice's two favorite things: Babes and bugs.

The babes were everywhere. Waiting at bus tops, walking and rollerblading, hanging out in restaurant patios and sidewalk cafes. The beaches were _crammed_ with them. They wore bikinis, tank tops with no bras, short shorts, micro-mini skirts. Orlando was a never-ending parade of hot, uninhibited female bods.

And the goddamn _bugs_. Ants, beetles, flies, termites, ticks, even _scorpions_. Some of the suckers were _huge_. He caught a Giant Waterbug in a golf course water hazard. The thing was four frickin' inches long, a meal in itself.

It was the Giant Waterbug he'd stashed for later in his jacket pocket that he was crunching on, instead of the canapés, avocado sushi, Citrus Shrimp-Watermelon Salad, brie, and other crap on the caterer's table. It was a pity the party was being held inside. Outside, it would've attracted a lot of flies.

Beetlejuice didn't give a damn about what kind of champagne it was. Booze was booze.

The Velvet Bar in Universal Orlando's Hard Rock Hotel was full for the private, evening event. The now-complete lead cast, swing casts, and understudies were in attendance, as well as the writers, director, producer, costumers, makeup and appliance artists, and tech crew.

"Attention, please." Lou, who was six feet two, held up his hands and waved them. Sid tapped a fork on a champagne glass, making an effectively annoying sound. The crowd quieted and focused on the director.

"Thank you. First, I want to welcome the newest members of the cast. Sheila and Lissa, our lead Hip and Hop!"

The tall, young black woman and the lengthy blonde grinned and bowed as the rest of the cast and creatives applauded.

"And of course we want to thank our writers, Sid and Alice, for their bravery and valor in completely gutting and rebuilding their script."

Sid and Alice nodded in response to the applause and cries of "Woo hoo!"

Everyone else was introduced, as Beetlejuice sat in a zebra-striped chair, popping fire ants into his mouth and not paying attention.

"And last, but not least, as I'm sure he'd say so himself," said Lou, with a very dry voice, "the 'Ghost With the Most,' who's responsible for us still being employed. B.J. Beetleman."

The ghost's mouth was stuffed with struggling ants as the crowd applauded. He chewed, swallowed, and stood up. He bowed repeatedly. _Yeah. Bring it on. This is whut I was_ _ **made**_ _fer, baby._

"Thank you, thank you." Beetlejuice pulled a Marlboro from his pocket and stuffed it between his lips. The applause quieted in reaction.

"Beetleman," said Dan.

"Yeah, my thanks include you, Dan. Yer a great—"

"The _cigarette_." Alice whisper was so quiet it could hardly be described as a whisper.

"What? _This_?" Beetlejuice snorted. "Ya didn't think I was gonna _light it_ , did ya? You _know_ th' only time I smoke is after I've been _smokin_ ', honey." He smirked wolfishly at her.

Everyone in the room tried very hard to not make eye contact with anyone else, and especially not with Alice. Her entire face turned a few shades darker than mahogany.

" _Anyway_ ," continued the ghost, completely oblivious, "I'd like t'thank everybody who's already been thanked, for th' same reasons they've been thanked." _Not that I was listenin'_. "An' since I haven't seen them since th' time we read-through together," _when Dan shoved me outta th' room before I could say whether I liked them or not_ , "I want 'o personally welcome my new ghoul friends."

Beetlejuice slid in between the two alarmed young women and gripped their waists. As the get-together was casual, both were dressed in black, knee-length, flounced skirts, and white t-shirts embroidered with _Beetlejuice's Graveyard Revue,_ which had been the Universal Corporation's cast party presents to everyone.

"I think," he continued, looking first at black girl, then the blonde, "that we're gonna produce a helluva lotta chemistry for our audiences. Sparks," his arms tightened, pressing the girls firmly against him, "are gonna _fly_." His hands slithered to their buttocks. He felt their arms move. The little fingers of both his hands were yanked backward, _hard_.

"AA!" Beetlejuice changed his yelp into a laugh, "aah ha HA! Oh _yeah_. I'm lookin' forward t'workin' with _them_."

"And we're looking forward..," Lissa began, walking away.

"…to working with _you_ ," Sheila finished, tossing her thick, wavy dark brown mane, and joining Lissa on the other side of the room.

As Dan came forward to express his thoughts in monotone, the ghost retreated back to the buffet table, rubbing his fingers. He signaled to the server for another glass of champagne.

Evidently the new girls didn't want to play. Just as well; he was playing a dangerous enough game banging Alice. He was mindful of the old adage, _Don't shit where you eat_. Messing things up with a writer could be bad, but, after performances began, Alice wouldn't be needed any more. But getting off with one of the "ghouls gone wild," and then something going wrong, could endanger his entire scheme. There'd be opportunity enough for new babes, once the audiences started. Till then, he had dear, sweet, eager-to-no-longer-be-repressed Alice.

"To get this party properly started," said Lou, "I think we should all say what we hope audiences will be saying. Our star character's name, three times. Are you ready?"

"Yeah!" said everyone. Led by their director, they said, "Beetlejuice…"

Beetlejuice, who was in the back, leaning against the doorway to another section of the bar, looked up from his drink. _Yeah, they love me._

"Beetlejuice!" they cried.

The ghost's smug expression dropped and shattered. _Holy fuck, whut're they -_ -

"Beetlejuice!" they finished.

"SHIT!"

The ghost didn't hear his own lightning and thunder. He crashed on the floor of his dismal Tomb Room, knocking over a three half burnt candles the coffin table.

"SHIT!" he repeated, stumbling to his feet. "What th' _fuck_ was I thinkin'?" He kicked the table, clattering empty bottles of El _Conquistador_ Mexican Lager beer. "How could I be such a _fuckin' idiot?!"_

It was a glaring mistake. He'd been so eager to hear his name shouted by audiences that _he'd_ suggested to Alice that she write that his "character" first appeared on stage after the audience was exhorted to say his name three times. He'd been so damn busy thinking in terms of it being a _show, a fantasy,_ a concoction of special effects and music and acting _,_ that he never thought of the consequences _._

Even in rehearsal, no one had said his name three times, because that was what the audience was supposed to do.

Beetlejuice was able to reappear, in his ghostly form, at the party. He was tiny, a few inches high, and foggy, lurking in a potted palm stuck next to the food and drinks table. The rock group booked for this gig was playing far too loud for a room that size. Beetlejuice could see Alice, towering like the Empire State Building, only a few feet away.

"Alice," he whispered fiercely. He knew she'd never actually hear him, but maybe he could get through subliminally. It was an ability poltergeists had, which helped in leading suckers to them. "Babe, honey, say my _name!_ C'mon, notice me missin'!"

Alice paused in her conversation with Sid. She looked around.

"Yeah, babe, that's it! Notice yer hot stud's gone!"

With rock music blaring, Beetlejuice could only just make out Alice loudly asking Sid, "Where's B.J.?"

"No, don't say _B.J.!_ Say the _other_ name!" the ghost barked.

Sid turned, scanning the crowd. "He was right there. You'd think that of _all_ people, _he'd_ stick around. He probably went out to smoke."

"He doesn't smoke, except after….uh…." Towering Alice's nose went so red its freckles disappeared.

Sid scowled. Beetlejuice couldn't hear his lowered voice as the young man leaned over to his writing partner, but he could read his lips. _I hope you haven't done what I worry that you have,_ Sid said.

Alice mouthed, _I don't know what you mean_.

Sid's frowning mouth replied, _He's a user._

 _So maybe I'm using him_ , Alice answered. She nervously reached up to tuck her hair behind her ears, but, as her hair was already pinned up, she could only tug at a few stray, curly locks. _He's the one who gave us the ideas, and he isn't getting any writing credit, or pay as a contributor._

Sid's nostrils expanded and contracted, as if whiffing something unpleasant. _Sure. You keep telling yourself that._

"C'mon, babe," Beetlejuice hissed. "Say my name, _say my muthafuckin' name!_ "

Mike joined Alice and Sid, holding a bottle of beer. In a raised voice he asked, "Where's Himself?"

"I don't know," said Sid. "I haven't seen him since we did the 'Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice' chant—"

There was a loud _thump_ , the catering table shook, and someone under it went, "OOF. _Shit!_ " The two writers and the actor jumped, startled. The server at the table looked down and stepped back.

Beetlejuice crawled out from the under the tablecloth and stood up, rubbing his head.

"Dropped my lighter." He stuffed his lighter into his pocket. "Just th' lady I wanted t'see." Beetlejuice linked his arm around Alice's and abruptly said to Sid and Michael, "'Scuse us."

"Some people need to learn that they can't be the center of the attention every second," said Michael, rolling his eyes and walking away.

"Bite me," said Beetlejuice.

"Excuse _me_." Alice removed her arm from the ghost's. "What do you want?"

"We gotta talk."

"Oh." She crossed her arms over her chest. " _Now_ you want to talk."

"Whaddaya mean 'now?' As opposed t' _when_?"

With a _humph_ , Alice marched through the crowd and disappeared. Beetlejuice, stunned, moved to follow, when Sid's hand gripped his upper arm and yanked him back.

"Why don't you just leave her alone to enjoy the party?" said Sid. "She's worked hard for this."

"Sid." Beetlejuice grinned at him. He draped his arm in pseudo-chummy fashion around the young man's neck. "You've been Alice's writin' partner fer how long?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but it's been three years."

"Three whole years. My my _my_. Been lookin' out fer her here in Orlando, have ya? Sorta th' big brother she's never had."

"She has _two_ big brothers," Sid interjected.

"Sorta th' _other_ big brother she's never had. Th' spiky-blond-haired paranoid one. Why doncha stick t' keepin' an eye on her grammar an' punctuation an' whatever it is you writers fret about, an' keep yer shiny, pointy nose outta her personal life, huh kiddo?"

"I've had about all the condescension from you that I'm going to take."

"Good. Then maybe you'll shut up. Now, I've got work t'do." Beetlejuice dug his hand into his jacket pocket. He shoved the contents into Sid's free hand. "Here, hold these for me, willya." He turned away quickly, tracking Alice.

"What the..?" Sid stared at the small, confused red ants crawling over his hand. A native Floridian, he recognized what they were. "Oh m'god, oh m'god, somebody get some kerosene, holy crap—" He rushed out of the bar as fast but as carefully as possible, holding his hand at arm's length in front of him, desperately calling, "Is there an exterminator in the hotel?"

Beetlejuice snagged Alice's arm and yanked her away from the swing "Frankie" she was talking to. It wasn't until they were out the bar's French doors and past the pool-side palm trees that her protests could be heard.

"What is your _problem?_ " She jerked her wrist out of his hand.

This had to be handled delicately. It was one thing to get her to see things _his_ way when they were alone. Alice, insecure under her professional surface, was fairly easy to influence. But here, surrounded by tourists, gawkers, hotel customers, and other people who were involved in the show, there were too many distractions.

"Alice, babe." Beetlejuice held her by the shoulders and looked her up and down admiringly. " _Yeah_. Yer a knock-out t'night, honey. Hair up, little short dress, sexy little boots. Ya didn't have to do it fer me, but I won't say I'm not appreciative."

"I didn't do it for _you!_ Everything is all about _you_. Did you drag me away from the party just to compliment me on how I look?"

 _That didn't work._ "Babe, we gotta do a rewrite."

"What? Why?"

"We gotta change it from sayin' my – sayin' th' character's name three times, t' sayin' 'B.J.'"

Alice wrinkled her nose. "That doesn't make any sense. The entire premise is that your character is a poltergeist, and that the only way he can come onstage is when the audience says his name three times. It's a good idea."

"Yeah, yeah, it's a good _idea. But_. Y'know, honey, th' name. It's," he desperately grappled for a good reason, "it's too many syllables. Three. B.J., that's two syllables. _Much_ easier."

"Are you kidding?"

"It's like this. Th' tourists are gonna be hot an' sweaty, they don't mind a _little_ audience involvement. Three syllables is askin' too much. Two, they can handle two."

"I do _not_ believe this." Alice stuck her hands on her hips. "No! Three is…is…He's a Trickster, right? Part of mythology? Three is a very important number in mythology! The three Fates. A man, a woman, a child. Birth, life, death."

"Yeah, great, but two is just as good! Black or white, day or night, wrong or right, wet or dry, dead or alive."

"But three _sounds_ better. It builds. 'Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice—"

Beetlejuice covered her mouth with his hand and laughed nervously. He stroked her angry, compressed lips with his fingertip. "Sure, sure. But B.J.'s got more, uh, _impact_. 'BJ, BJ, BJ!' See?"

Alice took his finger away. "'B.J.' sounds too much like it means…. _You know._ "

"What? _That?_ No, babe, nobody's gonna be thinkin' it means _that_. And even if they do, what's wrong with it?"

"God, you actors! The show opens in a _week_ , and you expect me to spend the weekend rewriting so we can integrate the change during final rehearsals! You think you can just change things on any whim, don't you? And that you can demand anyone's attention anytime, _don't you_?" Alice was shifting into sulk mode, fretfully twisting a few tendrils of hair hanging loose around her right ear. "You could have talked to me about this… _then_. But no! You decide you can just grab me during the middle of a party, in front of everyone!"

"Then?" Beetlejuice was sincerely confused. "Then when?"

Alice self-consciously glanced at people walking by. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest like a shield. In a low, resentful voice she said, "I'm not bothered that you didn't wake me up to say goodbye. Or that you didn't leave a note. I want you to know that."

After a few seconds he grasped what she was claiming to not be complaining about. "Oh. Right. That." Shit _. I knew I shoulda done somethin'. Once you bounce their beds, they expect acknowledgement afterward._

"I'm a grown woman," Alice pouted as she tried very hard not to pout, "and I know we're not in a 'relationship,' that this is only a…a… _physical_ thing. I'm not upset. I'm _not_."

"Good. Relieved t'hear it. Now, about th' rewrite-"

"You _could_ have talked to me about this _then_. _After_. When we were _alone_."

 _Aw, **fuck**. Damage control, damage control._ Beetlejuice's smile was slick and his embrace slicker as he maneuvered them both between two large palms and a screen of ferns. "Baby, you were _exhausted_. We _both_ were. We were ridin' on th' comfy cloud of post-ecstasy bliss, honey. That was no time t'talk, about _anything_. Now, here, yeah, it's a party, but it's still business-related, an' what I'm talkin' to ya about is business--"

"Why don't you take your clothes off when we, y'know?" Alice whispered.

"What? Clothes?"

" _I'm_ always naked." Alice glanced around quickly, and then glared at the ghost. "But you only pull your," she searched for nice, safe euphemisms, and, not finding any, improvised, "nether-region clothing down to your knees or ankles. But everything else is on. You take off your boots, but not your socks.”

 _Maybe because if you noticed that I'm white as a ghost all over, you'd start to ask questions._ "Sincerely, sweetheart, I never noticed. But it still works, right? Why change a good thing?"

Alice looked unconvinced.

"OK, sweetheart, I didn't want t'mention it, but," Beetlejuice shyly shifted his eyes away from hers. "I'm self-conscious about my body."

"You?" cried Alice. " _Self-conscious_?"

Shit, she was a tough customer. Seeing her deepening frown, he had an instant brainstorm. "Let's try this: next time, we get lots of candles. You like candles, right? We both strip down and have a blast by candlelight." In candlelight, his pale body would look gold. He tightened his embrace and lowered his voice. "How about t'night? We can rip off some of th' candles from th' bar."

Alice's frown softened at the corners. " _If_ I ever…do that…with you again-"

"'If?'"

"-we're going to _your_ place."

" _What?_ " This evening was getting more and more complicated, goddammit. He'd planned to party hard, and spend the night rocking Alice, and here she was wrecking it. "My place?"

Alice whispered, her blush showing even in the dark, "The neighbors complained about the noise. They actually slipped _notes_ under my apartment _door_."

"Whadda they _expect_ screwin' t'sound like?" Beetlejuice said, in a posh English voice, "I believe I am experiencing a climax due to our sexual interaction. I wish to express my profound appreciation and pleasure, darling. Yes, that was very nice." He snickered. "Or maybe it should be more Minnesotan. 'Oh golly. Yah, dat's not bad, then. Yup. It beats a sharp stick in th' eye, don't ya know.'"

Alice sputtered, "They're not supposed to know I'm _doing that!_ I don't want them thinking that I'm that kind of girl!"

Beetlejuice squinted. " _What_ kind of girl?"

"The kind of girl who makes noises like that!"

"But, you _are_ th' kind of girl who makes noises like that."

"Yes, but I don't want them _thinking that_!"

Beetlejuice's head hurt. _Women._ "Honey, seriously, you don't wanna go to my place. It's a pit, th' landlord's a slob, he never keeps it up, there's a spider th' size of small dog livin' there, I'm not exaggeratin'. I'm just waitin' fer my pay so I can move out." He nuzzled her ear. "C'mon, we'll go t'your place."

Alice could feel herself melting, and he could feel her melting. He shifted to kiss her, to seal her compliance, when a high, breathy voice lobbed his nickname over the palms.

"B.J.! Is that you?"

His head jerked up. Alice, who hadn't heard, said, "What?"

Hurrying around poolside chairs, tables, and waiters, her jiggling testing the limits of her white halter top, was Candy. She was headed right for him.

"What is it?" Alice was disappointed by his sudden distraction.

Beetlejuice had seconds in which to make a decision if he was going to avert a collision that would ruin everything. He was _not_ going to allow it to be ruined. No way in hell was he going to return to freelance bio-exorcism and slumming from cemetery to cemetery. He couldn't get Alice away in time, and there was only one way to stop Candy. It was a risk he had to take.

Candy was twenty yards away, but he locked eyes with her. With a snap of his fingers, she was possessed.

The young blonde stopped in her tracks. She looked puzzled. She slowly turned around and walked in the other direction.

"What are you looking at?" Still tight in the ghost's embrace, Alice looked over her shoulder and focused where Beetlejuice's eyes had been fixed. She saw a young woman, pool-side, strolling away from them. Alice scowled and shoved him away.

"Of course! A blonde's ass! Why, _why_ would I think you would be thinking of _me_?"

 _ **Shit**! _"No, babe, it's Carl Hiaasen!" Beetlejuice waved frantically. "Yo, Carl! Love yer work! Let's golf sometime!"

"GOD, you insult my intelligence!"

"Alice, honey, that girl, she was yellin' something,' so of course I looked, c'mon, hey—"

Alice rebuff was fast, hard, and in his right shin.

As Beetlejuice grabbed his shin, hopping and swearing, Alice, with fierce but damp eyes, snapped, "No rewrite and **no** …. _noise-making_! Not ever again!" She stumbled through the party-goers outside the open French doors and went straight for the Velvet Bar's bar.

* * *

"Hey, Ted," said Aadi.

"Um?" Ted, who'd offed himself with his head in a gas oven, was concentrating on his cards. He hadn't died from asphyxiation by gas. While choking, he'd grappled with the handles on the oven, trying to shut off the gas, as he'd changed his mind about shuffling off this mortal coil. He'd instead accidentally clicked on the pilot light, which ignited the gas surrounding his head. From the shoulders of his blue business shirt down to his polished shoes, he looked fine. His head, however, looked like a Thanksgiving turkey which had been left in the over for an hour too long.

"I saw a blip." Aadi had stepped off the L'Enfant station platform in Washington D.C., briefcase and all, and in front of the Yellow Line, which was on time, for once. Unlike how he'd imagined it, he did not hit the rails, and he was not instantly killed by being ground up like hamburger. The Yellow Line hit him in midair. He was carried on the windshield, splayed like an gigantic bug, for several yards before the train stopped. Luckily, for his Afterlife, anyway, he was hit from the back, so his face was all right.

Ted took two cards and looked up at the twenty by twenty foot black screen, with the continental United States of America, Alaska, Hawaii, Puerto Rico, and the U.S. Virgin Islands, outlined in white light. From a pinpoint at the map's center to its perimeter, a white line of light swept slowly clockwise. It looked exactly like a radar screen, circa the 1950s. Which made it very out of date.

In the ten years Ted had worked in the United States of America Department of Poltergeist Surveillance and Management he'd never seen any authentic possession activity registered by the radar. This was why Ted was unimpressed by Aadi's claim; the equipment was unreliable.

"Where'd you see it?" Ted asked.

"Florida. Somewhere in central Florida. Swear ta god, Ted, there was a red blip."

Ted sighed and set down his cards. "I never heard of any poltergeists in that area. You ever heard of any poltergeists in that area?"

"I'd have to go to the file." The file cabinet was covered with dust and spider webs. The spider, who hadn't filed anything in years, was asleep on top of it.

"Don't bother. They haven't updated the info since Eisenhower croaked."

"It wasn't a big blip, but I saw a blip, Ted, swear ta god."

"So we'll wait and see if it happens again."

The screen was huge. It would be five minutes before the Possession Sensor swept central Florida again. They watched and waited.

* * *

Beetlejuice intimately knew how the Possession Sensor worked. He knew he had three minutes and counting.

"'Scuse me, 'scuse me, outta th' way, comin' through." He didn't dare disappear and reappear in the well-lit, crowded pool area. Besides, he didn't know exactly where Candy was going. He'd possessed her with the impetus to shut up, turn, and keep walking. Where the hell had she gone? The place was too damn crowded.

* * *

The radar swept down through South Carolina, Georgia, and entered northern Florida. Ted yawned. "We got any more pretzels?"

"Out. We've got some microwave popcorn somewhere."

"Wait a sec, it's covering central Florida."

* * *

Beetlejuice had possessed Candy's mind so completely she wasn't aware of her surroundings. He caught her just as she was about to step into the pool. The people at the tables nearby laughed, thinking her drunk or playing a prank. They laughed again as the ghost hustled her away.

Behind a canvas cabana, Beetlejuice snapped his fingers in her face.

* * *

The scanner passed over Deltona, Titusville, Orlando, and Palm Beach without incident.

"Well." Ted stretched. "It must've just been a glitch."

"I know the equipment's old," said Aadi, "but why would it just _blip_ like that?"

"It didn't happen again, so forget it. Who'd possess anyone in central Florida anyway? It'd be redundant."

They both laughed as Aadi opened the upper cabinet door. "Ooo! Jiffy-Pop! I thought we couldn't get that stuff here!"

* * *

Candy blinked. She looked at the ghost, her blue eyes big and slightly frightened. Beetlejuice steered her to a fairly isolated bench and sat with her. They were on the other side of the pool from the Velvet Bar, well screened from the party by many people and the greenery.

"Hi. How ya doin'?" he asked.

"I . . . feel funny."

"Yeah?" he asked, feigning concern.

"Like I wanted to do something, but . . . I couldn't. I was walking away to somewhere, but, I didn't _want_ to."

"We all have days like that." Beetlejuice glanced around. No Juno. Not that she'd bother showing up and give him a warning any more. He was way past the warning stage. The next stage would be him being stuck inside a tiny "haunted" house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by an impenetrable perimeter, with the Herbert World sandworms on the other side. He was _not_ going to let it ever come to that.

Candy started trembling and crying. "I didn't get the part."

"Aww, honey." Beetlejuice's arm snugly circled her waist. She put her head on his shoulder. Her fluffy blonde hair, encrusted with hair spray, stuck in his face. "Uh, how'd ya," he blew hair out of his mouth, "know where t'find me, kid?"

"I asked the receptionist at the theme park main office. She told about the cast party." Candy lifted her head and snapped, "I thought you had influence!"

"Hey, remember," he held up his hand, trying to get her to lower her voice, "I said I _might_. But all I could do was heavily _encourage_ them, know whut I mean?"

"I wouldn't have done it with you if I thought you couldn't get me the part!"

"Aw, babe, what a hurtful thing t'say." Beetlejuice put his hand on his heart as if wounded and made Big Eyes at the young woman. "You were just _usin'_ me? I thought we had a _thing_ between us, some chemistry. Wasn't it _great_? Didn't I rock you to a place you'd never been before, babe?"

Candy, who, like every female who'd ever said "yes" to the poltergeist, was puzzled and astonished to find herself saying, "Well…yeah."

Beetlejuice whispered in her ear, "An' wouldn't ya like t'go there again?" Hey, Alice wasn't cooperating. No reason not to indulge in some late night Candy.

"Yeah…" Candy suddenly stiffened with resolve. "No! No, I would not! In fact, I'm remembering that I'm mad at you! You _did_ say you had influence on the director and casting people! You lied to me! I think the director and casting people should know about this!" She stood up with determination.

Beetlejuice pulled her back down. "Candy, no, ya don't wanna do that. Look, look." He held both her hands and put on his Sensitive, Reasonable Expression. "Show biz is a small town, honey. Ya start accusin' people of doin' things, word gets around, an' nobody wants to hire ya. If ya tell th' director you _willingly_ bounced on th' Big One just because ya wanted a role, it doesn't reflect badly on _me_ , it reflects badly on _you_."

"But…" Candy's white-blonde eyebrows knotted. "But I thought everybody did it to get parts. That's what the guy who took my head shots told me while we were doing it in his studio."

"Well, maybe they might. But it's bad taste t' _admit_ it. Ya don't want everybody in Orlando show biz thinkin' you're the kind of girl who does that."

Candy blinked. "But, I _am_ the kind of girl who does that."

"Yeah, but you don't want them _thinkin'_ that."

Candy scowled. "I'm confused."

"Honey, stop usin' yer mind. It's easier." Beetlejuice’s hand slithered under the left leg of her powder pink Bermuda shorts as he whispered, "I know a way t'make you feel _aaalll_ better."

Candy's slap knocked him off the bench and onto the hard cement patio. Flat on his back, he stared at her, incredulous, as she stood up, her fists balled at her sides.

"No! I _am_ mad at you! You led me astray with false promises! I may just _tell_ your director! Anonymously! It'd just serve you right, too!"

"Babe, no, ya don't wanna do that," Beetlejuice stammered as she stormed away. By the time he scrambled to his feet, she was lost in the crowd.

" _Women_!" Beetlejuice yanked his hair. "What th' _hell_ do they _want_?"

"You got me, pal." A portly, balding man named Stan, seated alone at a nearby table, wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt and beige linen trousers, blearily lifted his bright orange Brass Monkey cocktail, topped with an orange slice and tiny umbrella. For a couple months he’d been breaking his marriage vows with the help of a Hard Rock Hotel waitress. But now she was ignoring him, and there were strange, huge charges on his American Express.

Beetlejuice faced his fellow male. "Ya give 'em the best time they've ever had, hump-wise, but they still get these _expectations_! All ya gotta do t' manipulate guys is wave th' promise of money an' power in their greedy faces! But women have these goddamn _feelings!_ "

The man frowned, blinking slowly. "'Hump-wise?'"

"The show starts in a week! I _got_ t'get Alice t' rewrite it before then. An' I got t' make sure Candy keeps her yap shut before then. If Alice knows about Candy, she won't do a rewrite, an' th' audience will say my name three times, an' _I'll be screwed_!"

"So whatcha gonna do?" asked Stan, a ball-bearing salesman, thinking this guy had a much more interesting life than he did.

"I dunno! I'll think of somethin'! Stop askin'!"

"OK," said Stan, and sucked on his bright green straw.

Beetlejuice headed for the Velvet Bar. He could tell from the sounds that the party was in high gear. There was a break in the crowd, and he saw Alice seated at the bar, looking sad and sulky even as an understudy Drac was obviously hitting on her.

Good. The ghost would play it cool. He'd show his face, but keep his partying toned down. Alice had to see that he wasn't devastated by her rejection, but that he didn't have eyes for any of the other babes. Let her get lonely and thirsty. He'd have the hotel concierge contact a florist, and send a small, beautiful and tasteful bouquet with a humble and apologetic card to Alice's apartment, for her to find when she got home tonight.

Beetlejuice shot his cuffs, loosened his tie, and combed his hair. Of course he had things under control; he was the Ghost With the Most. It was Funtime. He deserved it, dammit.

* * *

The number display on the Complaints Department wall pinged on 20651.

Benjamin Miles, who'd been sitting on the red-yellow-orange plaid couch for two weeks, saw that his tiny paper slip read 20651. He went to the front desk.

The green-skinned clerk with the red hair, wearing a strapless gown and a white satin sash which read _Miss Argentina,_ didn't look up from her mountain of paperwork. "Can I help you?" Her tone stated that she really couldn't care less whether she helped anyone, ever, at all.

"Um." Benjamin Miles was always intimidated by authority figures. Yes, she was only a clerk, but she was an employee of the Afterlife Bureaucracy, and therefore to be respected.

The young woman glared at him. " _Yes_?"

"I would like to file a complaint."

"Oh. Really." Miss Argentina snickered. "Girls, he wants to file a _complaint_."

The ghouls seated at desks with ancient Underwoods laughed sourly.

"Isn't this the right department?" Benjamin looked at the sign on the wall which said _Bureau of Afterlife Complaints, North American Department._ "I was sure I followed the directions given to the letter."

"What is your complaint?" the clerk snapped.

"I, uh, there's a poltergeist."

"And?"

"He is disrupting my haunting territory. He is particularly loud, obnoxious, and rude. "

"Really. Loud, obnoxious, and rude."

"To say nothing of his personal habits, which are disgusting, at the very least. Judging from a revolting statement he made, I suspect that he is more than commonly familiar with young lady ghosts with whom he has not ever been married, and not even engaged."

"So he does what, exactly?"

Benjamin shifted his feet. "I don't care to be explicit to a young lady such as yourself."

Her smile was grim. "I'll try not to be shocked."

"He lies about in a state of almost complete undress, smokes, drinks, and scratches himself in places where a man should not scratch in public."

Miss Argentina beckoned for the ghost to step closer to the desk. He did.

"He's a _poltergeist!_ " she yelled. Benjamin Miles jumped back. "That's what they _do! Idiota molestos!_ "

"But, why do they behave so reprehensibly?" Benjamin was sorely perplexed.

Miss Argentina threw up her slender, slitted wrists. "Why is water wet? Why is there Life and Death? Why can't I get a decent chimichurri sauce around here?"

"But, I don't want him hanging about my cemetery!"

"Where is your cemetery?"

"Orlando, Florida."

"I have never heard of any poltergeist in that area. Agnes! Have you ever heard of any poltergeist in central Florida?"

"Paula White."

"I thought she was assigned to Branson, Missouri?"

"You're thinking of Jim Bakker."

"We can't help you," said Miss Argentina, coldly. "Every poltergeist has set Rules about how she or he does or does not manifest, and they're different for each one, depending on the level of their power. It is up to _you_ to discover under what conditions this one appeared, and how he can be sent away."

"How do I discover it?" asked Benjamin, with increasing frustration.

With a sigh of intense irritation, the young woman marched over to a filing cabinet, yanked open an overstuffed drawer, dug around, and pulled out a thick pamphlet. She shoved it at Benjamin Miles.

The cover read _So You're a Poltergeist! A Handbook_.

"It's left over from when I worked Admissions," said Miss Argentina. "You'll learn more about how they operate. It's a start." She bellowed past Benjamin Miles, "Number 20652!"

Benjamin Miles returned to the Drawdy-Rouse cemetery, very disappointed. He'd used one of his precious Help Vouchers, and not received any help. He sat down on a stone cemetery bench. Skeptically, he flipped through the handbook.

A chapter title grabbed his attention. _Chapter 13_ : _**Warning:**_ _How They Can Get Rid of You._

Benjamin Miles perked up, and settled in to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been to the Velvet Bar or the Hard Rock Hotel in Orlando, Florida. I'm completely faking it, based solely on photos and videos of these locations. Any mistakes or bad descriptions of the bar and the hotel's pool area are strictly my fault. If someone wants to finance a trip so that I can write accurate descriptions, I'm more than happy to go.
> 
> The cast party is not meant to represent any real cast party for the cast and creatives of Beetlejuice's Graveyard Revue. The scene is inspired by personal experiences from my days in theater, and is entirely fictional.


End file.
